


you will continue to need

by kathryne



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Older Characters, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, not-so-platonic cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: After bragging about how well she sleeps alone, Frankie finds herself unable to cope with nighttime solitude.  And though they're not that close – yet – Grace wants to help Frankie overcome her difficulties, despite the... unorthodox... methods involved.  It's what friends do, right?// A s1 bedsharing AU.





	you will continue to need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parcequelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, parcequelle! I was very excited to receive this assignment, as you may be able to tell. Thank you for the chance to explore this idea. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing!
> 
> Content note: This story contains discussion of disordered eating. It's neither explicit nor plot-significant, but it is present.

Grace is already awake when her phone beeps on the nightstand. She rolls over and grabs it automatically. Part of her expects any contact at this hour to be bad news, but when she fumbles her glasses on and squints at the screen, it's just another 'tickle' from that damn dating site. This one's from a user calling himself Loves2Laff, which sounds promising despite the cutesy misspelling. She swipes to open the app and thumbs through his pictures. "Not bad," she mutters. Her finger hovers over the 'wink' button. 

Instead of responding, she lets the phone drop. It tumbles across the empty side of the bed and comes to rest against a crease in the duvet. Loves2Laff's face gazes back at her until the screen dims and goes black. What would it be like, she wonders, to wake up to that face for real?

Closing her eyes, she tries to imagine it. She puts him under the covers, of course, next to her, sleeping quietly – _not_ snoring – and then she wakes him up, watches him yawn, makes him smile and reach a hand out and – what?

The picture dissolves. In its place she sees her erstwhile marriage bed and every morning she woke in it to find Robert gone and herself alone. She wrenches her eyes open. "Don't be ridiculous," she says aloud, rolling over and climbing out of bed. When she comes out of the bathroom, she looks at the phone, considering. Rather than sliding it into her dressing gown pocket, she leaves it where it lies. 

It's early; the sun's barely up; the beach will be cool and damp and empty. Grace thinks about a cup of coffee warm in her hands, the wave-washed smoothness of the sand under her feet. 

Downstairs, though, her dreams of solitude are dashed. Frankie's slumped at the island, swaddled in blankets. Her head's on her hands and her wild morning curls are running riot all over the table. Grace is going to be picking hair out of their eggs for days. She walks directly to the coffeemaker and flips the switch; the grinding noise echoes and Frankie groans, still face down.

"What's got you out of bed so bright and early?" Grace asks. She can hear the causticity in her voice, but she can't seem to help it. "I thought it took a nuclear bomb or a sale on quartz crystals at the local coven to get you up before noon on a weekend."

Frankie rolls her head to the side and eyes Grace through her curtain of hair. "It's nice that you're asking," she says blearily, "so I'll ignore how you sound like I pissed in your cornflakes, especially since you probably don't eat cornflakes because they have too many carbs." Grace feels herself flush, embarrassed and angry, but Frankie continues. "The thing is, I woke up in the middle of the night, and it just hit me, you know? I was all alone in that big empty bed. No Sol, not ever again."

It's close enough to Grace's own thoughts that morning that she nearly drops her coffee cup, clattering it against the machine awkwardly. 

Frankie ignores her, or doesn't notice. "I thought I was over it," she says, turning her head down again so her voice is muffled against the counter. Grace has to come closer to hear her. "I even bragged about it to Sol. How well I sleep alone, I mean. So maybe this is karma coming at me for being petty at Larry's funeral, because now I can't stop thinking about how cold and lonely it is in there. Keeps me awake." She sits up with a groan, pushing her hair back off her face. "Do you miss it, Grace?"

"Wh-what?" Grace starts another cup of coffee automatically, just to have something to do with her hands. She passes the first one over to Frankie, who takes it and starts dumping in sugar.

"Sleeping with Robert. I mean, really sleeping." Frankie chortles. "Although I miss that, too."

"No," Grace blurts, before Frankie can go on. It's true enough: she got used to Robert's absence – and stopped expecting much of his presence – long ago. Now, at least, she has a reason why, which is almost reassuring. But Frankie looks so dejected, stirring her painfully sweet coffee, that Grace feels like she has to clarify. "Robert and I, we didn't really... not for a long time..." She shrugs, letting silence fill in the details. Frankie looks at her, too understanding. Grace clears her throat. "You could get a hot water bottle," she suggests.

Frankie sighs. "Yeah. Well, at least I have comfort food." She slides off the stool and opens the freezer, grabbing a box of Eggo waffles. Grace watches in mounting horror as she turns to the fridge, piling whipping cream, maple syrup, and butter on the counter. Without being asked, or even looking behind her, Frankie grabs Grace's cottage cheese, too, and holds it out. 

Taking the container, Grace turns away with a wince as Frankie plugs in the toaster. She tries not to look as Frankie puts together the world's unhealthiest breakfast, dancing a little as she waits for the waffles to toast, humming in pleasure as she buries them below syrup and cream and digs in. 

Grace shudders and dumps half her cottage cheese in the compost on her way back upstairs.

Her phone is right where she left it. She ignores it until she's showered and dressed and making the bed with her usual care. She tugs the sheet taut, smooths the duvet, and plumps the pillows just so, then picks it up and opens the app. 

Loves2Laff looks back at her. She hesitates. And then she thinks of Frankie's sad face, thinks of her cold and lonely bed, and hits the 'wink' button with unnecessary strength.

She keeps herself busy the rest of the day, running all the errands she usually spaces out over the course of the week. She cleans the kitchen, sorts the recycling, and plans out the week's meals. She can't seem to stop thinking about the emptiness in Frankie's voice, though, not even when she's out of the house. In the grocery store, she tries to quiet the reminder by detouring down a forbidden aisle to pick up tortilla chips and vegan nacho cheese. It's against her best judgement, but she knows – she hopes – that the treat will put a smile on Frankie's face and ease a little of her loneliness. It's what a friend would do, isn't it? Try to help?

After dinner, she sits on the porch longer than usual, book in one hand and martini in the other, and if she pays more attention to the martini, well, maybe she's just not in the mood to read about women striking out on their own. Eventually the breeze off the water is no longer soothing; she stands carefully, walks purposefully, pulls the doors closed behind her with a slight bang. 

At the sound, Frankie rises from the sofa like a zombie, trailing blankets and back in her pyjamas again – or, hell, Grace doesn't know, maybe she didn't change all day. Grace blinks at her. Frankie blinks back.

"Night, Grace," Frankie mumbles, slumping back down onto the sofa. She fiddles with the tv remote, then grabs a bag of pretzels and shovels a handful in her mouth. She looks like she's settling in for the duration. Grace watches her for a long moment before taking the martini glass into the kitchen. When she comes out, Frankie's staring at the tv, but it's not on. Her head bobs as Grace watches; she snorts and jerks upright, looking around, then reaches for the pretzels again. 

Like an echo, Grace hears Frankie's voice in her mind, pleading at the yogurt shop, _Make me feel it_. Grace thinks about it, slowly, fuzzy from the martinis: she likes Frankie. She doesn't want to see Frankie sad, and Frankie's been sad all day today, even when Grace unpacked the groceries and showed off her purchases. They didn't make Frankie feel good. And Frankie shouldn't sleep on the couch; that'll only make her feel worse. But there must be something Grace can do to make her feel...

Her brain stutters on the thought of what she wants Frankie to feel. Still, there's only one real choice, isn't there? She walks over to the couch and lays a hand on Frankie's shoulder. "Coming up?" she asks when Frankie looks at her.

Frankie gapes for a moment, mouth moving soundlessly. "Oh, Grace," she stutters. "Really?"

Frankie is warm under Grace's hand through the soft cotton of her pyjama shirt. "Before I think better of it," Grace says, squeezing Frankie's shoulder to take the sting out of her words.

"Yippee," Frankie crows, hopping off the couch faster than Grace thought she could move. She runs for the stairs, blankets and all, and Grace stands by the couch, watching as she disappears. She looked so happy. Surely a night in crowded quarters is worth it, for that?

Frankie's left all the lights on. Grace turns them off one by one, concentrating intensely, then trudges up the stairs. Something tells her she's going to regret this. It's awkward, already, when she gets into her room: Frankie's under the covers, and Grace has to carry her pyjamas into the bathroom and change there. But as she goes through her bedtime routine, she can hear Frankie shifting, punching the pillows, muttering to herself, and it's weirdly comforting. It's been a long time since there was someone waiting for Grace in bed.

She barely lifts the duvet to slide into bed; still the mattress dips under her weight. Frankie has the sheets pulled up to her nose, but she rolls over beneath them and opens her eyes, watching as Grace gets settled. It would be unnerving except that Grace's Lunesta is kicking in, blunting her edginess, and she sinks down with a sigh.

"Grace," Frankie says. Grace turns just her head to look at her. "This is so nice of you. I didn't expect – well, anyway, I appreciate it. Thanks."

"It's fine, Frankie." Grace pats the air, clumsily, then the mound of covers where she thinks Frankie's shoulder is. "I hope you sleep well." She's already dropping off the precipice into unconsciousness; she thinks she hears Frankie say "I mean, this, I really feel," and it chases her all night through soft-focus dreams of frozen yogurt until she's not even sure if it was real.

  


* * *

  


The next morning, Grace wakes up slowly. It's warm under the covers; she's reluctant to come all the way to consciousness. She's sore, though, stiff like she spent the night in an unfamiliar bed, and something about that niggles at her sleep-fogged brain. A soft snore penetrates her attempts at reasoning and Grace jerks upright, nearly falling off the edge of the mattress, where she's apparently been clinging subconsciously all night. Frankie. How did she forget about Frankie?

She looks sideways, barely moving her head. Frankie snores again and Grace relaxes, her breath steadying. She slides out of bed carefully and all but runs to the bathroom, where she splashes water on her face and looks at herself in the mirror. Yeah. It's still real. She still slept all night in the same bed as Frankie Bergstein. Frankie Bergstein is still sleeping in her bed, still – she peers around the doorjamb – rolled up under her covers like she belongs there. This is what her life has come to.

Grace pulls her robe off the back of the door and shrugs into it, belting it tightly. She walks into her bedroom and pauses by the bed, staring down at Frankie, watching as she shifts and mutters restlessly. Even asleep, she's never quiet. With a sigh, Grace slips out of the room, closing the door carefully behind her. She might as well get their breakfast started.

Frankie comes stumbling down the stairs just as Grace is plating the first egg-white omelette. She sets the plate down in front of Frankie's seat and pours the rest of the mixture into the still-hot pan for herself. Frankie gives the food an incredibly skeptical look; when she glances up and sees Grace's face, though, she swallows whatever she was thinking. "Uh, looks great," she says instead, grabbing the salt and pepper. 

"Did you sleep okay?" Grace asks automatically, and then winces. The normally-innocuous question has a lot more weight to it this morning than usual. She braces herself for Frankie's inevitable oversharing.

Instead, Frankie sounds uncertain, maybe even nervous. "Yeah, I – I did. I really did. Did you? I mean, you sure passed out quick. The marvels of modern pharmacology, huh? Something to watch. But I slept great. Did you? Oh, I asked you that already."

Grace keeps her head down, not looking at Frankie, poking at the omelette even though she should leave it alone to set. "I slept pretty well, yeah. Which is good. I've got a busy day. Busy, busy day. A-and Loves2Laff tickled me again. I'm going to wink back. Or maybe I should squeeze him. Unless that's too forward."

"Forward?" Frankie laughs through a mouthful of eggs. "You've been on that thing for a month now. You're so not forward you're practically backward. You gotta go after what you want, Grace. Make a decision, and..." She waves a fist in the air like she's inspiring an army. "Just _go_ for it, you know?"

"Uh-huh." Grace shifts the pan minutely on the burner. The heat needs to be even. "I'll keep that in mind." She can't remember the last time she made a decision without an extensive cost-benefit analysis involved. Unless offering Frankie a place to sleep last night counts. No reason why it should. She plates another perfect omelette and sits down next to Frankie, who's nearly done with her own breakfast.

"And after all, you give good squeeze. I can vouch for that, if you need a little courage." Frankie winks. 

Grace looks at her, confused, until, all at once, she remembers that brief moment of connection last night: blurred by Lunesta, touching Frankie through the covers. She flushes in embarrassment. It's not the same. 

"Thanks, by the way," Frankie adds, mouth full again.

Grace swallows in a hurry and washes the overlarge bite down with a gulp of coffee. "I was cooking anyway," she says dismissively.

"No, not – I mean, yes, for breakfast, too." Frankie recovers quickly when Grace slants a startled gaze at her. "But for last night. That was – it means a lot. Meant a lot. It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me since Sol planted a dragonfruit cactus so I could raise the boys on it and try and nourish the warrior inside them. Not that that worked out so well. But still, thank you."

Grace feels a warm glow in her chest. She takes a deep breath, hoping to keep anything from showing, and looks down at her plate, cutting a smaller, more acceptably-sized bite. "Don't mention it, Frankie." The effort of composure makes her voice rougher than usual. Even to her own ears, she sounds shaky. No chance Frankie won't pick up on it, annoyingly perceptive as she is.

There's a long pause. Grace keeps cutting her omelette, even though her knife is scraping against the plate. And then Frankie finally speaks.

"Well, you do you with that tickling-whacking-slapping thing. I've got a busy day of my own ahead. Oh, you better believe it," she continues, even though Grace hasn't said a word, caught as she is in a rush of relief. "Today is my semi-bi-annual visit to the alpaca ranch."

"The al _paca_ ranch?" Grace repeats. Every time she thinks she's plumbed the depths of Frankie's weirdnesses...

"Grace, it's the loveliest farm," Frankie says with glee. "You'll have to come with me some day." Grace privately places the odds on that at slightly lower than the possibility they'll discover their Roomba is, as Frankie keeps insisting, sentient. But then, that's about where she would've put the likelihood of her inviting Frankie into her bed before yesterday, and look how that worked out. Frankie, who thankfully doesn't know where Grace's thoughts are, and who is still talking about alpacas. "After Bud moved back from college, I rehomed Al Pacacino. It was the best thing for him. For us all. But I promised I would keep visiting and make sure he was being treated properly, and I take my duty of care very seriously."

"I'll bet you do," Grace mutters into her eggs.

"So!" Frankie presses her palms to the table and stands. She takes her plate to the dishwasher and even puts it in. On her way out of the kitchen, she stops, turning so Grace sees her only in profile. "See you... see you tonight?"

Grace freezes momentarily with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. She completes the motion and takes a sip before she can answer. "Tonight," is all she says. That seems to be enough; Frankie nods decisively and walks out, leaving Grace to wonder what just happened between them.

She takes her time over breakfast, but all too soon she finds herself back in her bedroom, though this time she's alone. And yet she's not. Frankie's presence is as strong as if she were still there: the covers are thrown back on the bed and the air smells subtly spicier than Grace's light floral perfume. She pulls the windows open, letting the curtains billow in the breeze as she showers and dresses, and by the time she finishes her makeup the room smells only of ocean.

Grace approaches the bed. There's no reason to feel apprehensive, and so, of course, she doesn't. She flips the duvet back and runs her palm over the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles. The pillow still has the imprint of Frankie's head, a few stray grey-brown hairs clinging to it. Grace brushes her fingers across the divot, gently, like Frankie might feel her touch. 

Then she realises what she's doing; she snatches her hand back like it's contaminated and grabs the pillow, shaking it violently, erasing all evidence that Frankie was ever there. The hair drifts to the floor; Grace gathers the rogue strands and tosses them in the trash on her way out of the room. Behind her, the bed looks just as it always does, serene and unruffled.

The whole day seems to go by faster than usual, exaggerated as a record played at twice its speed. Grace doesn't see or hear from Frankie, who's presumably busy at the alpaca farm. So much for out of sight, out of mind, though: Grace can't seem to stop wondering what she's doing and – more importantly – what she's thinking. It's exhausting, or at least that's how Grace rationalises going to bed as soon after dinner as she thinks she can get away with. Not too early – she doesn't want it to look weird when Frankie comes in. If. If Frankie comes in. She sits in bed with a book, turning pages and wondering. They didn't really discuss it, not directly. Will Frankie show up without an explicit invite? Will she want to? Does Grace want her to? She shies away from that last question and devotes herself determinedly to her book.

For a while, it works. Grace manages to get caught up in the narrative, enough that she stops noticing the passage of time. She doesn't even hear the door handle turn; it's not till she catches motion over the top of the page that she surfaces, startled, to find Frankie peeping through the half-open door.

"Still up?" Frankie asks unnecessarily.

"Uh." Grace takes her glasses off, then puts them back on. "Yes. Just. Reading." She holds her book up like a complete idiot.

"Oh. Okay." Frankie pauses. Neither of them says anything. And then Frankie opens the door wider and steps through. She's in her pyjamas and robe, but she moves slowly, like she's waiting for Grace to say something. Grace doesn't. And still, neither does Frankie. Not as she shrugs out of her robe and tosses it over a chair, not as she pulls the duvet back, and not as she climbs in next to Grace. The bed seems to tilt more than Frankie's slight weight should account for. Grace holds herself steady. Frankie wiggles down under the covers and burrows her head into the pillow, ruining its perfect shape, working it into something more comfortable. Finally she rolls onto her side, her back to Grace, and groans contentedly.

Grace doesn't ask whether the light bothers Frankie. She's seen Frankie fall asleep in too many absurd places. Instead she tries, again, to go back to her book, to recapture her earlier immersion. Even though Frankie is relatively quiet – for her – she's still distracting; Grace keeps glancing up to check that she's still there. She half-expects, each time, to meet Frankie's watchful eyes looking back, but Frankie stays resolutely facing the wall. 

After a few pages, Grace gives up for good. She puts the book back on her small stack of hardcovers, sets her glasses on top, and flicks the light off, then slides down under the covers as well.

Frankie might be asleep already. But then, she might not. Grace keeps her voice low, just in case. "Uh, how – how was your day?" she asks.

Frankie rolls over immediately, like she's just been waiting to be asked. "The farm is so amazing," she says, her grin wide and luminous. "The advances they've made towards being a zero-waste environment – you wouldn't _believe_ what they do with the compost. Grace, I have learned more about alpaca shit today than even I knew there was to be learned. And I knew there was a helluva lot."

Grace laughs; the sound catches her by surprise, and so does the smile she can feel on her face, which must be almost big enough to match Frankie's. "Do I want to know?" She's pretty sure it's a rhetorical question.

"Oh, you know you do," Frankie says. She's close enough to Grace that their elbows bump as Frankie begins to outline methane conversion tank systems in the air with her hands. Grace doesn't mind as much as she thinks she should.

She falls asleep at some point while Frankie is explaining the byproducts of the conversion process. It's the first time in months she hasn't needed a pill before bed. Without one, she wakes in the early hours of the morning, suddenly, surprised by her own coherence. She didn't just wake: she was woken, by the unfamiliar sensation of being touched. Frankie. Frankie's body, curled around hers; Frankie's arm over her waist. Frankie's breath, rhythmic against the side of Grace's neck. Grace shivers, even though she's warm.

If she moves, she tells herself, she'll wake Frankie. So she doesn't move, and eventually, she sleeps again.

  


* * *

  


It's astonishing – Grace is astonished – how quickly she becomes used to Frankie's presence in her bed, Frankie's touch in the dark. Frankie doesn't join her every night; on the nights that she does, though, Grace tries her best to fall asleep without chemical help. It takes longer, even in the face of Frankie's unavoidable monologues, but it's worth it for the early morning moments when Grace inevitably surfaces from an uneasy sleep to find Frankie pressed up against her. Deep asleep, Frankie mutters and snuffles, but instead of being annoying, the sound is comforting, lulling. She gives off an amazing amount of heat; after a lifetime of not being warm enough, even in San Diego, Grace has finally found a solution. And although they don't talk about it, every morning, Frankie is back on her side of the bed, giving Grace the space she needs to start the day.

It's been a few days, now, since Frankie last appeared at her door for the night, a few days during which Frankie has apparently found other ways to cope. That's probably for the best. Frankie needs to be able to get a grip on herself. And Grace... Grace needs to get on with her life, not get distracted wondering what – how – _how_ Frankie's doing, alone in her studio. She needs to stop thinking about what makes a bed not just cold, but lonely.

She woke that morning not to Frankie's muffled snoring, but to a slew of notifications from Loves2Laff: a tickle, a squeeze, and a message, all sent the evening before, just after she'd stopped waiting for Frankie and taken a Lunesta. He wants to meet for lunch. Grace looks, and looks again. He wants to meet for lunch today. 

A litany of excuses spring immediately to mind. She hasn't even looked in the mirror; she's still fuzzy from the late pill the night before; she hasn't had time to prepare herself. But Frankie would say to go for it, she realises. Frankie would tell her to take the risk. If Frankie were here.

Well. Fine, then. There hasn't been enough laughter in her life the last few days. She'll have lunch. It's just lunch, after all. It's not like they're going to sleep together.

She announces it first thing when Frankie walks into the kitchen. Grace has been nursing her coffee, waiting, nervous about the time ticking away from her, time she could be using to get ready. That's why she brings it up so quickly, once Frankie finally arrives. She doesn't have time to waste. "I have a date!" she says brightly, before Frankie has even finished pouring herself a cup of coffee.

Frankie twitches. The stream of coffee pours over the rim of the cup, splashing on the counter. She mops it up with the sleeve of her robe. "Do you," she says. She heaps sugar into her coffee and stirs for a long time, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cup. Without turning, she opens a drawer and rattles around, and then she thumps into her seat next to Grace, nearly spilling her coffee again. "You'll need these," she says, tossing something along the table. 

Grace picks it up and almost drops her own coffee. "Frankie!" she says, high-pitched and startled. It's a strip of condoms. "Frankie, why would you – it's a lunch date, not a – not an _assignation_!" She pushes the condoms away violently.

"It's best to be prepared, Grace," Frankie says, stretching across the island and dragging the condoms back towards them. "You never know what might happen."

Grace stands, taking her half-empty cup over to the sink. "Oh, yes," she says, shaking her head. "Yes, I do know." What might happen? Exactly what she decides she wants to happen, that's what. And that's all. She heads up the stairs without looking back. Why did she spend so long wanting to talk to Frankie? She's got a date to get ready for.

The timing's tight, but when her phone dings to remind her she has five minutes until she has to leave if she wants to be ten minutes early, she's looking in the mirror on the landing, checking her makeup in natural light. Not bad, if she does say so herself. 

The gentle quake barely registers on Grace's radar, preoccupied as she is. But Frankie _shrieks_ from downstairs, a note of pure panic, and Grace is moving before she even processes it; she practically runs down the stairs, clutching the bannister to keep herself from tripping in her heels. "Frankie?" she demands, frantic, looking around. "Are you all right?" Where is she? What happened?

"Grace," Frankie wails, and Grace has never heard this much fear in her voice, not even right after Sol left her. "Grace, come here! Come here! It's safe here!"

"Frankie?" She's not in the kitchen, not on the couch. Finally Grace catches a flash of movement and looks down, under the table. "What are you _doing_?"

"Grace, _please_ ," Frankie says, and Grace dredges from the depths of her memory a long-ago conversation with Robert about Frankie's seismophobia. In '94, she thinks, Robert complaining angrily that Sol had stayed home from the office that day, keeping Frankie calm after the incessant news coverage of the Northridge quake. She'd assumed it had been a joke, that they'd taken the opportunity for a day off together, but Frankie's very real fear now makes her ashamed of her past self.

"Oh, Frankie." She steps closer to the table and bends down, steadier on her feet. "What can I do?"

"Get under here," Frankie insists. "Hide, Grace, what if there's another quake?"

Grace feels cold sweat spring up along her spine at the thought of cramming in under the table next to Frankie. _Claustrophobia_ , she tells herself, _just another irrational fear_ , and takes a steadying breath. "Okay, no, not that," she says. "What else?"

Frankie reaches one trembling hand out from her hiding place. Grace steps a little closer still and takes it, squeezing reassuringly. Frankie pulls, and Grace lets her, until suddenly, Grace's fingers are pressed against the skin of Frankie's chest where it's bared by the vee of her pyjama top. "Rub my sternum," Frankie says, and Grace sighs and leans into her, doing what she asked just for a moment. She's so warm. Just like she is at night, and it's been so long since Grace touched her. Grace wants to make her feel better, feel...

"No!" Grace leaps back, snatching her hand away. This isn't the middle of the night, isn't her bedroom; there's no shadowy darkness to hide the unusual sight of her being all touchy-feely. "No, Frankie, that's too – that's too weird, I can't – " She looks at her watch, desperate for an escape. "And I'm – I'm going to be late! For my date! Is that – is that what you want?"

"Grace." Frankie stretches her hand out again. "Grace, I need you."

"I..." Grace wavers. 

The door bangs open. "Frankie!" Sol says, and Grace takes a great gasping breath. _Just in time_ , she thinks, and doesn't question it.

"I have to go," she says into the room, somewhere between Sol and Frankie. "I'll leave you two alone." She flees without thinking about her phrasing, or the slight bite of disappointment that came out in her voice.

  


* * *

  


Loves2Laff – Charlie – Charles – seems to be a perfectly normal man, at least at first. But Grace can't keep her mind on the meal. All she can think about is Frankie, at home with Sol. When Charles' flirting tips over an edge, past the boundary of her comfort, it's a relief. She has a reason to leave. 

As soon as she opens the door to their house, she calls out, "Frankie? Frankie?" And then, after a moment, reluctantly, she adds, "Sol?" She hears a noise in the kitchen and turns that way. She's not hurrying.

"They aren't here." 

It's an unfamiliar voice, and the shock of it pushes Grace back. She clutches her purse to her chest, staring at the strange man sitting at her kitchen counter, eating a sandwich. He's muscular, with close-cropped hair, and despite his casual attire something about him raises the hair on the back of Grace's neck. Oh, god. What's happened?

"Who are you?" Her voice is thin, but she forces herself to stand straight and keep eye contact.

The man doesn't move. He speaks slowly. Grace loses a bit of her fear for herself, but that just gives more space to her fear for Frankie. What he says doesn't help. "I came for Frankie's class. She wasn't in her studio. She wasn't in the house, either."

Frankie's fucking convicts from her fucking art rehabilitation program. Grace doesn't have time for the instinctive 'told you so' that should come along with this proof that they are, as she keeps telling Frankie, uncontrollable. Instead, her mind fills with visions of Frankie, hyperventilating her way into the E.R., Sol patting ineffectually at her hand as she gasps for breath. "Oh, _no_ ," she says. At that moment, her purse vibrates. 

Her phone. Frankie. 

In her rush to check her messages, she drops the purse, its contents spilling out across the island. She flips the phone face-up with a shaking hand and looks at the notification. 'Out 4 lunch w sol,' it says, 'dont lite stove til we check 4 gas leaks.' She relaxes all in a rush and has to brace herself against the island counter. Frankie's okay.

"She's okay," she says, eager to share the good news even with a stranger, but the man isn't looking at her. He's looking at the counter, where she just dumped her purse out in a panic, and he's smiling. She follows his gaze. The strip of condoms Frankie tried to force on her earlier is lying next to her wallet. Frankie must have shoved them in her purse after all. Grace blushes, but even that can't break through her relief. "They're not mine," she says, and then feels foolish.

"Ah," he says, lifting his eyebrows, the single syllable full of meaning. "Someone gave them to you, yes?"

"No," Grace says immediately, "well, yes – but – " Because someone did give them to her. Frankie gave them to her. But that's not at all what's being insinuated. Frankie gave them to her as – as a prank, maybe, to make Grace stammer and stutter like she is now. Or maybe as a genuine gesture of caring – but probably she just wants Grace to get laid out of some crass belief it'll make her easier to live with. Grace could tell her from experience that's not true.

"Too bad," he says, nudging the unopened strip with a finger. Grace thinks, unbidden, of Frankie's hands on the condoms, passing them over, and flushes even hotter. "That you didn't get to use them. Can I just say..." He looks her up and down blatantly; Grace feels herself responding, her back straightening and her chin lifting as she presents herself for approval. She nods, just as automatic. "Someone should be appreciating you. Enjoying you."

He pushes his chair back and stands, still moving slowly and deliberately, and Grace can read his intentions in his body language as clearly as if he said them out loud. He steps closer. So does she. His hand lands heavy on her hip, and even as she's tilting her head up for a kiss she remembers the last time she was touched there, four nights ago, when she woke to Frankie's hair in her face and Frankie's arm across her stomach.

His lips meet hers and the world shudders, and for a moment she believes it's just a reaction to her first kiss in too long – her first non-gay kiss in even longer. But then he moves, yanking them both into the hallway as the trembling continues, and though he's pressing her against the wall her head clears. _Another quake_ , she thinks, _an aftershock_ , and then, as he bends to kiss her again, _Frankie_. 

She pulls back, and so does he, giving her space. She places her hand on his chest to keep them separated. Just where she'd had her hand on Frankie, earlier, rubbing her sternum. If Frankie were here now, Grace wouldn't pull away. It would be worth it, to know Frankie was coping as the quake shudders to a halt.

Grace looks up then. She still has her hand on the man's chest. "I – I can't," she says, wincing. He just nods and steps back, thank God. He leaves her there, back against the wall for stability, and walks out the way she came. She watches him go. She didn't even get his name.

Ashamed, Grace hides for the rest of the day. She hears Frankie come in later that afternoon, but she stays stubbornly ensconced in her bedroom with a bottle of Chardonnay and a pile of books she's been meaning to work her way through, none of which she can seem to commit to for more than a few chapters. Dinner is a packet of almonds she carries in her purse in case of blood-sugar crashes, and by the time the sun sets she's more than ready for bed.

As she's getting settled under the covers, Frankie taps on her door. "Grace?" she says, sounding uncertain. Grace looks up. "Is it all right if I..."

"Of course, Frankie," Grace says, a little surprised. She thought they were past needing to ask.

Frankie crosses the room and stands next to the bed, but doesn't get in. She hugs herself, waiting, unusually still. "I need..." she says, then interrupts herself. "I might have nightmares. About, uh, you know." She shakes both her hands in the air, a nonsensical sign language that Grace somehow understands to mean _the earthquake_. "Do you still...?"

Oh. Frankie _needs_ her. Frankie needs _her_. Grace nods, moving to pull the covers down, and smiles her softest smile. "We'll get through it," she says.

Frankie climbs in, but she lies stiffly, unable or unwilling to relax. Grace almost reaches out, almost offers one of her pills, but something stops her. Instead she just switches off the light and lets her breathing deepen. Maybe, in the middle of the night, Frankie too can take some comfort from their closeness.

  


* * *

  


For once, Frankie's gone when Grace wakes up the next morning. It's not till dinner that they see each other again. Frankie comes in as Grace is shredding cold chicken on top of her salad; Grace gestures at the other chicken breast, but Frankie shakes her head, rummaging around in the fridge and coming out with a container of Chinese left over from dinner with Coyote a few nights ago. She throws it into the microwave and slumps against the counter, rubbing her hands over her face. Grace takes the opportunity to set two places at the table. She finishes by pulling out two wine glasses and the rest of yesterday's Chardonnay. 

Frankie looks up when the microwave beeps; for a moment she seems to consider heading back to her studio, but she doesn't. She sits, and dredges up a smile for Grace.

"So, yesterday was really..." Frankie blows out a breath and starts over. "I meant to, but I didn't even ask how your lunch date went. Spill the beans, Grace, was it love at first sight? Did you find the little gift I left ya?" She winks, a broad caricature that seems a little forced.

Grace snorts. "I did – but not at lunch, thankfully. Very smooth." This would be the perfect time to mention that their house was invaded by a felon, maybe talk Frankie into holding her classes somewhere else, but Grace can't bring herself to mention the man. There's too much there she doesn't want to think about. 

Instead, she looks back on Loves2Laff and rolls her eyes. "The date was a complete bust. Oh, Frankie, I don't know if this internet thing is right for me. He just wasn't what I wanted at all."

Frankie wrinkles her nose in sympathy. "How come?"

"He was completely... obnoxious! He was obnoxious. He didn't know the meaning of propriety. And..." She remembers her discomfort as he kept going with his jokes, taking them much too far. "He didn't understand me. Not even close." Not like her mystery man, who'd read her desire to break off their kiss almost without needing words.

"So. Somebody polite, who gets ya. That's what you want in a man, huh?" Frankie stuffs some noodles in her mouth and chews, watching Grace carefully.

"Yeah. I guess. Someone who knows how to communicate." Grace shifts and pushes her salad around on her plate. "I'm talking to a few other people, but..." She's had more thoughtful conversations in bed with Frankie than she has with any of them so far. "Uh, what about you? You had lunch with Sol, right? How did that go?"

"Oh, hell." It's Frankie's turn to look uncomfortable. "It was weird. I mean, I guess it's nice he still cares. He really went out of his way to be there for me." She takes a swig of wine. "But then, coming back here after, it just reminded me how much things're changing. Have changed. Whatever." She looks for a moment like she's going to say something else, until she drops her gaze to her plate with a sigh.

If they were in bed, Grace would reach out to her. But they're not, and she doesn't know how else to show her support. So she sips her own wine and casts about for a way to break the silence. "You think I should set up another date, then?"

"Ah." Frankie pauses. "Well, yeah. Don't give in to one bad apple, or something. If it's what you want, you gotta give it the good college try."

Is it still what Grace wants? She hasn't been thinking about the why of it all quite as much, even as she chats and winks and squeezes. The fear of loneliness has receded a bit, pushed away by... oh. Well. By waking up with Frankie. And that's not going to last, is it? So she'd better get to it. "Yeah," she says, rising to put her dishes in the sink, suddenly exhausted and no longer hungry. "Maybe tomorrow."

Frankie's plate is still half-full, but she stands too, pulling her phone from a hidden pocket in her voluminous dress. "Oh, damn it all," she says, staring at the screen. "You won't believe what Sol's done now."

Grace tries to answer, but an enormous yawn catches her by surprise; she hides behind her hand, but she can't stop it, and her eyes water. Staying up and talking seems impossible. "Tell me, Frankie, but..." She jerks her head at the stairway. "Can we talk about it in – upstairs?"

"Oh!" Frankie's eyes widen. "Um, yeah, for – for sure. Let me just. I'll just get changed."

"Great." Grace scrapes their plates and puts them in the dishwasher. "See you up there."

Frankie beats her upstairs; tonight she doesn't hesitate to get into Grace's bed, and it's a familiar reassurance, knowing she's there. "Your phone is beeping," she calls as Grace stands in the bathroom, waiting for her eye serum to dry so she can layer her anti-wrinkle moisturiser on top.

"It's just the dating app," Grace calls back, rubbing oil into her cuticles. "I'll get to it later."

"Got a few more patsies lined up, hey?" Frankie asks as Grace emerges. "Big macho men this time? Is that what you're going for now?"

Grace pauses while stacking her pillows. She really should tell Frankie about that encounter with her student. It's easier to face once she's under the covers. She turns the light off, just for the extra protection, and waits till her eyes have adjusted as much as possible. "Listen," she says, "about yesterday," and Frankie inhales audibly, like she's bracing herself for bad news, though Grace isn't sure why. "After lunch, there was another man."

Frankie swallows wrong and goes into a coughing fit, waving off Grace's attempts to sit her up and pat her back. Finally catching her breath, she manages, "Another one? Two in one day? Grace, I didn't know you had it in you." Her expression turns devilish. "And speaking of which..."

"Stop." Grace holds up her hand, a physical barrier. She presses her legs together, easing away from Frankie's warmth. "Whatever you were going to say, just stop." Frankie sniggers, and Grace sighs. "Will you listen, Frankie? When I came home after lunch, one of your convicts was in the kitchen!"

"Rehabilitated former offenders," Frankie says automatically, and then stops. "Wait, what? Shitballs, I forgot to cancel the class. Someone came in? Who?"

"I, um." Grace pauses. "We didn't introduce ourselves. Tall, close-cropped hair...?"

"Ooh. Big blue eyes with heart-stopping lashes that make you just wanna..." Frankie looks at Grace, then away, her cheeks a bit pink. "Uh. Must've been Byron. Yeah, I'm not surprised he was checking up on me. Couple of boundary issues there. Did he say what he wanted?"

"He, well. Not really. He." Why is this so hard to say? "He kissed me."

"What?" Frankie yelps. Her whole body jerks in shock and she accidentally kicks Grace in the shin. "He what?" She inflates like an angry pufferfish. Then she looks at Grace and sags slightly. "Did... did you want him to?"

Want? Had want entered into it? Grace searches her memory. "I knew he was going to," she says. "I expected him to."

"Oh. Okay. Um." Frankie sticks a finger in her mouth, chewing on a ragged nail. She doesn't look at Grace when she asks, "So, was it good?"

Another question Grace doesn't quite have the answer to. She was too distracted; mostly she remembers worrying about how Frankie was coping with the aftershock. "It... wasn't really what I wanted, either," she says truthfully. "He was strong, and he wanted me, and – I guess he understood me pretty well. But it wasn't..." Some of it was nice. His hands on her, the sincerity of his kiss. She shakes her head. "It wasn't right."

"Huh." Frankie's playing with her lip now, running her finger across it thoughtfully. "Boy, you really – when you do go after something, you really commit, don't'cha. I could take lessons from you."

"Thank you?" Grace says, unsure how to take the compliment. "Does that have something to do with what you were saying about Sol?"

Frankie frowns. "Yeah. Sol says Robert was kinda peeved he came over to help me yesterday. He just texted to ask whether he should buy some carob muffins for him as an apology. I had to tell him they probably weren't Robert's bag. But it just made me..." She sinks down under the covers, but not for comfort this time; rather, like she's trying to hide. 

"I gotta figure out how to let go, Grace," she says quietly. Grace has to slide down, too, shoving her extra pillows off the bed, to be able to hear her. "Robert's right – Sol can't keep coming over just because I can't deal with something. I gotta learn to cope by myself." She turns to face Grace, her anguish clear even in the dim light. "That's why I didn't want to come in last night," she says in a rush. "You shouldn't have to put up with my nightmares and shit. I mean, come on!"

Grace feels a wave of distress again, like the one she felt when Sol showed up at their house yesterday, determined to take care of Frankie. This time, it's tinged with anger. Of course his barging in just fucked things up. She should give him a piece of her mind for making Frankie feel at all unwanted. That's the worst – the last thing anyone should have to deal with, especially after a fright like the one Frankie had.

"Oh, Frankie, Frankie, hush." Grace reaches out, gathering Frankie to her almost automatically. They fit together so well; she makes her usual tiny adjustments so Frankie can be as close to her as possible. "You didn't have any nightmares, did you, huh? You can count on me. Any time. Okay?" She's not much good at the reassurance game, but this is important.

Frankie's unusually stiff in Grace's arms. She doesn't slide closer, not like she always does in the middle of the night. And suddenly, Grace remembers the solitary nature of those midnight moments. In all the times Grace has woken in Frankie's embrace, Frankie's never been awake too. Maybe she didn't know what she was doing. Maybe – oh, god – maybe she's fucked it up, too – 

Frankie curls in against her, dropping her head heavily on Grace's shoulder. She throws her arm across Grace's waist and relaxes all at once, melting into her with the sweet little sigh she gives when she's falling asleep. "Okay," she mumbles against the silk of Grace's pyjama top. "Thanks, Grace." 

Grace sighs, relieved. She hasn't fucked it up. She's even – maybe she's done something right. Doing something right. She tightens her grasp on Frankie, pulling her closer protectively, and relaxes into the warmth she's already generating. _Take that, Sol_ , she thinks happily.

Grace doesn't wake in the night. The next morning, they're still curled together. Her top has ridden up and Frankie's hand is still on her waist, softer, somehow, than the silk ever was.

  


* * *

  


Her next date's a bust. Turns out, architect or not, yacht or not, there's a good reason not to agree to meetups before seeing a person's photo. That's not what she wants to talk to Frankie about, anyway. No, she comes home bubbling over with excitement about Guy. Guy, who saw her across the room and recognised her, despite how much she feels like she's changed. Who remembered her and has always seen something in her he wanted to get to know better. Who wants her to have things she has been lacking, experiences she wouldn't chase without him, like sneaking out through a restaurant kitchen, like her first taste of ice cream in longer than she likes to think about. Tomorrow, she's going to meet a boy – a man – for ice cream. The thought makes her laugh; even when she was a teenager, she never felt so giddy.

And she wants Frankie to know. She wants to share this feeling. Because Frankie will mirror it back at her, won't she? She'll be happy for Grace. She'll encourage Grace to treat herself, just like she did at the frozen yogurt shop. Grace is looking forward to her ice cream date tomorrow, and she can't wait, she honestly can't wait, until she can tell Frankie about it.

The delight carries her all the way to bedtime, and she lies down in the dark still full of pleasure. This, too, reminds her of her teen years, of the occasional sleepover or after-school party, the frisson of excitement that always came from listening to her girlfriends giggle about the boys they wanted to go out with. The discussions were almost more fun than the dates Grace actually went on. She hasn't had friends like that for a long time. Certainly she never giggled with anyone about Robert. Now, though it's really too early to hope, she wonders if maybe she can have both: being with Guy, and the joy of sharing with Frankie.

Grace waits and waits. When she surfaces, briefly, in the middle of the night, it's only to the realisation that Frankie isn't there.

Frankie's absence used to be something Grace celebrated. Every second she could carve out where the beach house was hers and hers alone, not full of incense or pot smoke or the absurd noises Frankie makes when she pretends to be meditating – every one of those moments was something precious. Grace clung to them like her sanity was at stake, and sometimes that felt like the case. But all the next day, right up until Grace is getting ready for her date with Guy, she can't stop wondering where Frankie is. She even checks in her studio, not long after a quick solitary lunch; wherever Frankie's gone, she hasn't left any clues behind. Grace heads out to meet Guy feeling somehow dissatisfied. 

Lunch with Loves2Laff left her a little gun-shy, but Guy is easy to talk to from the get-go. He's a bottomless well of stories, and when one ends Grace barely has to prompt him to get another one to start. By the time their ice cream arrives, she's dizzied by the breadth of his experience. Not that she really feels she's missed out on drinking cows' blood with the bushmen of the Calahari, but it's a far cry from her biggest adventures, like the Alaskan cruise she and Robert took with the Bergsteins.

"So," Guy says, a spoonful of vanilla ice cream suspended in the air in front of him. "That's my excuse. How come you haven't had ice cream in so long?"

Grace thinks, unbidden, of the frozen yogurt shop, which always seems to be in the back of her mind these days. She remembers the tiny taster cup Frankie handed her, joking without joking about it being a 'big treat,' and how gleeful she'd felt, knocking it back like a shot while Frankie watched and they both laughed. She remembers, too, the first day after the breakup, coming in to the beach house to find Frankie there, and how Frankie had said – like it was normal – that there was ice cream in the freezer. Like it was a thing they could both want.

To Guy, she says, with a shrug, "I've had other priorities." He takes it with a nod, raising his spoon in a salute to her, and she digs into her own mound of ice cream to echo him back.

The ice cream bursts in her mouth with a shock of icy sweetness, startling her into a gasp, and Guy grins at her around his own mouthful. "Good, huh," he mumbles, and she nods, but it's honestly overwhelming, all that sugar leaving a film on her tongue and her teeth after just the one bite. She swallows and it slides cold down her throat to sit heavy and rich in her stomach, already too filling. "Wow," she manages, eyeing the size of the serving on her plate. She wonders how much she can get away with leaving to melt.

When Guy walks her to her door, she's buzzing with the unaccustomed feel of a sugar high. But there's genuine excitement there too – the delight of a completed date, of coming out of an interaction energised. It's been a long, long time since she's stood on her step watching a man fumble for words to express how much he wants to see her again. Guy is thoughtful, articulate – he's an author, for God's sake – but she's reduced him to the cliché of "Can we do this again?"

She's still got it. And that, more than anything, is what drives her up on her toes to press her lips to Guy's. God, he's tall, and strong; his stubble rasps against her skin and his arms come around her after a moment's shock, holding her tight until she decides to pull away. "Wow," she says again, and he smiles, clearly stunned. 

"I'll call you?" he says.

She nods back, smirking. "I'll be waiting." And with that she turns, walking into the house, a little extra sway to her hips. Always leave 'em wanting more.

The house is empty, the spelling bee playing to an audience of none, but if Grace has to do without Frankie for another night, at least she has the reassuring echo of her effect on Guy to keep her warm. She switches the television off and stands for a moment in the dim room, still buzzing.

Upstairs, then, to hold this possibility close. But when she gets there, the light's already on, and Frankie is already there, waiting.

"Well, hello," Grace says. Shutting the door behind her, she shrugs out of her grey blazer, turning to the closet to hang it up. She untucks her blouse from her waistband; Frankie makes a little shocked noise, as if Grace is stripping naked in front of her. Grace rolls her eyes, unseen. "Where've you been?" she asks, facing the bed, tilting her head quizzically. She reaches up while she's waiting and starts tugging pins from her hair, freeing it to fall down out of her updo.

"I'm a free agent, Grace – I mean, a free spirit," Frankie says, pulling the duvet up higher over her knees, clutching it to her chest. "You don't need to know where I am at every moment of every day. Hell, even I don't know where I am half the time."

Grace chuckles. She pulls a clean pair of pyjamas out of a drawer and tosses them towards the bed, where they land across the blanket-covered mounds of Frankie's feet. "All right, keep your shirt on, I'm not reporting on you for the FBI. I was just wondering."

"Oh, yeah, how come? You have a pot emergency, or was there something else you needed?" Frankie kicks out, making Grace's pyjamas bounce. Grace laughs again as she takes off her earrings. She fiddles with the clasp of her necklace for a moment, almost turning to ask Frankie for help, before it comes open in her fingers and she can tuck everything away in her jewellery box.

"Tell you in a minute," Grace says, grabbing her pyjamas and squeezing Frankie's foot. She rushes through dressing and her routine in the bathroom, eager to get under the covers and talk.

"I met someone," she says in a rush, before she's even fully settled. She rolls over on her side, grinning at Frankie, who's slid down from her sitting position to lie almost in the middle of the bed. But that's okay, now. Grace even bumps her knee gently into Frankie's leg, nudging her to ask the follow-up question.

"Yeah, the yacht guy," Frankie says, not returning Grace's smile. "It went well, huh?"

"What?" Grace almost forgot yesterday's narrow escape. Was that just yesterday? "No, not him."

Frankie snorts and shakes her head. "Jeez, Grace. Are you a man trap or what? You're gonna run through all the eligible bachelors in town at this rate."

"Frankie!" Grace flops onto her back with a huff. She's trying to share something here. Why is Frankie being so stubborn?

"Okay, okay." Frankie rolls over this time. She lays a hand on Grace's upper arm, a wordless apology. "Tell me about the new guy. What's he own, a whole fleet of cruise ships?"

"Well, he's an old friend of Robert's. And mine, I guess. Guy. Guy McCarthy." Grace holds her breath. Saying this out loud to Frankie leaves a fluttery feeling in her stomach.

"Wait, _the_ Guy McCarthy? The explorer?" Frankie squeezes Grace's arm in surprise, and Grace nods back. "Oh, he's so cool. Such a free spirit. And so adventurous! How the hell do _you_ know him? What's he like?"

Something about Frankie's enthusiasm takes Grace aback. "He and Robert met in college. And he's – he's just a fascinating man. Worldly. Uh... handsome." Everything about Guy that attracted her earlier seems to have rushed out of her head in the face of Frankie's intense interest. "We ran into each other yesterday, and he took me out for ice cream tonight."

"Ice cream!" Frankie sounds genuinely shocked, and Grace turns towards her instinctively. Frankie's face twists as she tries to start several sentences, finally settling on, "I mean – wow. You really must like him, huh."

Grace swallows and looks away. She takes a deep breath and focuses on the edge of the duvet, fiddling with a loose thread. Then Frankie's hand covers hers, and she looks up again, into Frankie's understanding face. "Yeah," Grace croaks. She laces her fingers through Frankie's and holds on. "Guy. Yeah, I – I do. He's really... he's really something, Frankie. It feels... different, with him. Exciting."

"Grace, that's..." Frankie hoists herself up and over, squashing Grace into a slightly awkward hug. Grace lets out a quiet oof, patting Frankie on the back with her free hand, and Frankie pulls back a bit, finally settling down with her head on Grace's shoulder, a weight Grace is already starting to anticipate. "Hey, that's great. I hope he's a good guy, this Guy." She giggles against Grace's neck.

Grace groans silently. Well, there's a glimpse of her next week or two, until Frankie gets tired of her own supposed wit. "I think he is. We've – I've known him for a while, and I think – I wanna see where this goes." She yawns and leans her cheek against Frankie's hair.

"Yeah. You looked like you were really into him." Frankie's hand presses harder over Grace's hip, fingers curling into a fist around the silk of Grace's pyjamas. "So that's good. You should enjoy yourself."

That's almost what Byron said the other day, before he kissed her. Except he said 'Someone should be enjoying you.' Frankie's turned it around. She wants Grace to do the enjoying. Pondering that distracts Grace long enough that she feels Frankie slip into sleep, her breathing fading into soft rhythmic snores. They've nearly put Grace to sleep too when she thinks of what else Frankie just said. 'You looked like you were really into him.' Grace is suddenly awake again.

Looked like? Had Frankie seen them? If she was in the living room while they were on the porch, she had a front-row seat to Grace throwing herself into Guy's arms. She watched them kiss. And then she ran out of the room and up to Grace's bed, like nothing had happened.

Grace swallows. She breathes in and out. Her diaphragm rises and falls under the weight of Frankie's arm. For the first time with Frankie in her bed, she wishes for the uncomplicated oblivion of one of her pills. She can't reach them, though, not tangled up with Frankie as she is. So she just lies there in the dark for longer than she'd like, staring up at the ceiling, breathing while Frankie moves with her.

  


* * *

  


"Frankie," Grace says.

No response.

"Frankie," she says again, louder. She shifts her shoulder, trying to wiggle out from under Frankie's sleeping weight. Frankie just grumbles incoherently and somehow makes herself even heavier. Grace reaches across her own body to poke Frankie in the ticklish spot just under her ribs. "Frankie, get a move on!" she repeats, and Frankie yelps and rolls away at last.

Grace shakes her freed arm, waiting for the pins and needles to work themselves out. "It's like trying to wake a teenager," she says, then looks over to see that Frankie has curled back up in a little ball and is nearly asleep again. "Oh, come _on_ ," she says, exasperated. "I have to get dressed, Guy wants to get a round of golf in before it's too hot out."

"Golf, golf, golf," Frankie mutters into the blankets. "You know this is the eighth time in three weeks you've let Guy drag you out to the golf course? You two ever gonna do something you actually enjoy?"

"I – " Grace stops, startled, and counts back. Yeah, this will make eight rounds of golf in the three weeks she's been seeing Guy. That's more than in the three years prior, if not longer. "There's nothing wrong with golf," she says weakly.

Frankie rolls over and blows her hair out of her face with an exasperated breath. "Grace, ten years ago you said golf was for people who thought baseball wasn't boring enough. And it didn't sound like you were gonna change your mind any time soon. Don't bullshit a bullshitter, lady."

"Guy likes it," Grace says, defensive. "And I like spending time with him. And I don't have time to talk about this, Frankie, I have to go."

"Okay, okay." Frankie kicks the covers back, letting the cold air in, and clambers out of bed. She yawns and stretches and takes her time, just to be annoying, Grace is sure. But then she turns around as she's tying her robe. "Look, it's just... we both spent too long in relationships where someone wasn't being honest about what they really wanted. Are you sure you want to start that again?" 

Grace's mouth has gone slack with astonishment. She has to force it to close as she sits staring at Frankie. 

Frankie shrugs. "Think about it, hey? Anyway, you enjoy faking it at the golf course. If you decide you want to bow out, I'll be at the farmers' market, and you can always join me. Even though I know it's hardly your first choice for how to spend your day. Either way, I'll see you tonight." She leaves without waiting for a reply. 

The click of the door closing galvanises Grace. She has to hurry if she wants to be on time for Guy. She rushes through her morning routine, determinedly not thinking about what Frankie said. But once she's in the car, there's nothing else to concentrate on, and she finds Frankie's words echoing all the way to the first tee.

It's already a warm day, and as they finish the ninth hole, Guy wipes sweat off his forehead and says "Maybe that's enough for today." Grace feels a rush of relief; her smile becomes more natural. "We can always play the back half tomorrow," Guy adds, though, and it's like a window slams shut, cutting off all her fresh air.

"Guy, maybe..." Grace gathers all her courage, thinking of Frankie's challenging look that morning. "Maybe we could do something other than golf? Just for a change?"

Guy blinks like the thought never so much as occurred to him. "I thought you liked golf," he says blankly.

"It's... not my favourite way to spend the day." That's the closest Grace can come to admitting how much of herself she's been hiding. She holds her breath, hoping it'll be enough.

Guy's face softens and he takes Grace's arm, bending to kiss her briefly. "Hey, no problem. We can change it up. Got anything in mind?"

Grace smiles, relieved, but her mind is blank. What does she want to do with Guy? "I'll get back to you on that one," she says, trying to sound coy instead of confused.

"Can't wait." Guy hefts both of their bags into the back of the cart. "Lunch at the clubhouse again?" Another limp chef's salad. Grace braces herself. At least it should be her last for a while.

She's thinking about it that night – about what she and Guy can do together if golf is off the table – when Frankie comes in for bed. "How was the farmers' market?" Grace asks around her toothbrush. 

"Oh, fine, fine." Frankie pushes the bathroom door all the way open and bumps Grace away from the sink to fill up the water glasses they keep on their respective bedside tables. "Got a yam delivery coming tomorrow, so I hope you didn't have any plans for the kitchen."

"A yam delivery?" Grace coughs on toothpaste foam and leans over to spit. "What for?"

Frankie gives her a devilish grin in the mirror. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Grace lets that go. She won't give Frankie the satisfaction of asking again. And anyway, Frankie doesn't give her space to; the moment Grace gets in bed, Frankie rolls over and demands, "So, how was golfing? You and Guy signed up for the couples' tournament? The new face of the seniors' team? What?"

"No," Grace says archly. "In fact, I told Guy I was tired of golfing and we should do something different for a change." _So there_ goes unspoken.

"Hey, nice one!" Frankie smacks Grace's thigh in congratulations, grinning. "Betcha it felt pretty good, didn't it?"

"You know, it did." A little scary, a little daring. Grace is kind of proud of herself, basking in the warmth of Frankie's approval. "Gosh, it's nice to be with a man who's okay with this sort of thing. I mean, he's – he's interesting, he listens, he cares about whether I enjoy myself. It's – nice." The word's inadequate, but it's the best she has.

"Well, good. That's good." Frankie laces her hands behind her head, nearly elbowing Grace in the ear. "So, are you and he gonna, you know, take things to the next level?"

"The next...?" Grace frowns. Maybe Frankie has some ideas what can replace golf in the routine she and Guy have developed.

"Yeah. The next level." Frankie thrusts her hips upwards, the movement unmistakable even under the duvet. "I'm talking about s-e-x, Grace."

" _Frankie_ ," Grace splutters. "That's – that's – "

That really is the next step, isn't it. 

_I'll have to change the sheets first_ , she thinks, before the idea really settles in.

It's only been three weeks. Some small part of Grace is screaming at her about being fast, easy, cheap. But that's not what Frankie's implying – and there's no point waiting, is there? Not now. Not at her age. Not if she knows what she wants. Isn't this what she wants?

"That's none of your business," she manages at last. The bed is shaking. Frankie, next to her, must be laughing.

"It could be," Frankie jokes suggestively, and that's just the last straw. 

"I can't talk about this right now, Frankie," Grace says. "I'm going to sleep." She wiggles a little closer to the edge of the bed, leaving a gulf like she hasn't since their first night together. 

Of course Frankie's got sex on the brain. She's been missing Sol so badly she – she couldn't cope on her own. Whereas Grace... she doesn't miss it the way Frankie does. Sex. Frankie probably figures Grace is excited about it. Maybe she thinks Grace can barely wait. Maybe Grace should feel like that. But she doesn't. 

She rolls over onto her side, her back a final barrier.

For once, Frankie doesn't push. She doesn't even try to cross the space between them. "Night, Grace," she says, subdued, and Grace hums in response, pretending exhaustion. She falls asleep waiting for Frankie to start snoring.

It's easy to get up the next morning. Although they've rolled a little closer to each other and Frankie's flung an arm across the bed, only her hand rests across Grace's stomach, and Grace slides out from under it.

In the bathroom, alone, she lets herself revisit what Frankie said the night before. About having sex with Guy. It's not that she hasn't thought about it already, but Frankie's suggestion makes it seem so much more real. She looks at herself in the mirror, cataloging her bedhead, the impression of the pillow on her cheek, the puffiness under her eyes. Yet Guy is always eager to kiss her or touch her. He's a perfect gentleman, but she's felt his hands tighten on her waist when she pulls away from a kiss. He'll want her. She's sure of it. And he is, truly, such a nice man.

Grace just didn't think she'd have to work herself up to dealing with it again so soon.

She doesn't have to confront the topic right away: when she comes out, Frankie is gone, only the rumpled sheets proof that she was there at all.

Grace isn't sure what she was imagining when Frankie said she had a yam delivery scheduled for that afternoon. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't what she got, which is a kitchen full of the mealy-sweet scent of boiling yams on an industrial scale courtesy of Frankie and her 'yam man' Jacob. And Jacob isn't what Grace was expecting, either.

She thinks she remembers him from her occasional visits to Frankie's favourite farmers' market, though she mostly spent them hovering in the background, complaining about Frankie's need to squeeze every possible piece of fruit. She definitely doesn't remember him being this touchy-feely with Frankie, though. Or the way Frankie laughs back, her face lit up like... like... Grace doesn't even know.

What kind of farmer does home delivery, anyway?

Grace takes herself and her phone out on the deck in a pointed attempt to escape the smell. While she's out there, she might as well call Guy. He's delighted to hear from her, as always, and she's delighted to hear that he went golfing without her that morning and doesn't seem to bear any ill will. "Any thoughts about when we can see each other again?" he asks. "Maybe for a movie? I'd like to see the latest releases when they actually come out, instead of three years later projected on a sheet in a sherpa's garden."

Grace takes a deep breath. "Well," she says, "I was thinking maybe you could just come over here for dinner one night." She can hear Guy start to speak, but she keeps going, afraid she won't get it out if she stops. "And then – and maybe breakfast the next morning, too."

Guy's silent for a moment, and Grace feels the horrible burn of humiliation rise from her chest up into her face. Oh, Lord. What if he doesn't want her after all.

"I'd like that," he says softly, and Grace relaxes all at once, moving the phone away so he won't hear the breath sob out of her in relief. "You let me know when sounds good."

"Maybe – maybe Thursday?" Grace says. Two days. That gives her time to think it through and come up with a reason to cancel if she needs to.

"Okay!" Guy says. "Okay. Well." There's a long pause, neither of them sure how to fill it. "I'll talk to you before then," he says. "Bye, Grace."

"Bye," Grace whispers. She cradles the phone in her lap and stares out at the ocean. There's a flutter in the pit of her stomach, and she's not sure whether it's excitement or nerves. The scent of yams sneaks its way out of the house and under her nose again, and she makes a face. Or maybe it's just nausea.

Everything smells like yams for the rest of the day, even after Jacob leaves. Grace can barely eat dinner, can't enjoy her wine; she showers again before bed because it seems to have pervaded even her hair. It takes a good half hour of reading in bed before she can convince herself that the smell is finally gone. When Frankie comes in, Grace stiffens again; whatever that yam goop was, Frankie's probably rubbed it all over her face, or bathed in it, or something. But when she gets under the covers, all she smells of is her apple cider vinegar hair rinse, as though she was just as eager as Grace to wash away the scent.

Grace closes her book and looks over at Frankie. "So, you were right," she says, the words only a little strange in her mouth.

Frankie's eyes light up. "Of course I was," she coos. "Uh – about what?"

"Me and Guy, and – " Grace clears her throat. "And sex."

Frankie looks taken aback. "Wow, Grace. Did you sneak out in the middle of the day and do it while I wasn't looking?"

"While you were distracted by Jacob, you mean?" Grace shakes her head, tossing her hair back. "No. I called Guy. We're getting together in a couple of days. For – for the night."

"Well!" Frankie wiggles up into a sitting position, folding her legs into the butterfly position and turning to face Grace fully. "It's a good thing Jacob did come over today."

"Uh... what?" Grace feels a strange wash of jealousy.

"Because of the yams," Frankie says, like that clears everything up.

Grace shakes her head. "You're going to have to spell this one out for me, Frankie."

"My lube, Grace, my yam lube. It's all-natural and totally gentle. I'll get you and Guy your own jar. And there's always more where that came from. You just have to ask." Frankie beams.

"L-lube? Like... _lube_?" Grace's gaze drops to Frankie's crotch for a horrified moment before she can get herself back under control. She tears her eyes away, back to Frankie's face. Frankie doesn't seem to notice, but she does tug the covers closer, almost absently.

"I've been using it for years," Frankie confides. "Boy, it sure makes a difference. Comes right out in the wash. Way better than that silicone shit that's still slippery no matter how much soap you use." She smiles reminiscently. "It feels great on your skin, too. Like gliding on ice. And not only does it taste good, it's got a nice mouthfeel. If, you know, it goes places where your mouth does after."

"Whoa. Enough, Frankie. More than enough." Grace squirms and crosses her legs, trying to be subtle about it. Still, she can't help but ask – "You were making _lube_ all day today? With Jacob? Did he know?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I had to explain what I needed in order for him to bring me the best kind of yams. He'd never even considered making lube from them before. Can you believe it?" Frankie looks indignant. Grace can believe it.

"Home delivery, plus help making lube. He must really like you." Grace gets a petty kind of rush at the confused expression on Frankie's face. "You didn't notice him flirting with you?" Frankie shakes her head, and Grace perks up at the chance to show off. "Hasn't he been asking you all sorts of questions? Laughing at all your bad jokes? And he's always touching you. Isn't he?"

"Well," Frankie says slowly. "Yes. But he's not the only one." She's looking at Grace strangely, but Grace is enjoying their role reversal too much to question it. 

"I bet he's just waiting for you to offer him the chance to test out your lube." Grace smirks and raises her eyebrows, waiting for Frankie to fire back.

"Yeah. Well. Speaking of. You and Guy!" Just like that, Frankie yanks the conversational reins away from Grace again. "How are you feeling? Excited? Nervous? Are you worried?" She bounces in place, shaking the mattress. "I mean, this is the first time you've slept with a straight man in, what, over forty years? That's a lot, Grace."

It is a lot, put like that. Subconsciously, Grace has been comparing the self in her mirror to the last time she and Robert had sex, which wasn't all that recent to begin with. But the reminder that it didn't matter what she looked like or what she did – she was never going to be what Robert wanted – that burns through her all over again, and she thinks back before Robert, before pregnancy, to a self she barely wants to remember.

Some of what she's thinking must show on her face, because Frankie reaches out and takes her hand. "Hey, Grace, I'm – it'll be fine," she says, her voice as gentle as her touch. "It'll be good, I promise." She unfolds herself and wiggles under the covers, right up to Grace, not letting go of her hand.

"Yeah. I – yeah." Grace swallows, and swallows again. When's the last time anyone worried about how she felt in bed? Hell, when's the last time it was good, really good, for her? She doesn't even want to try and remember.

"We'll make it good," Frankie says, like an echo of her thoughts. She strokes Grace's arm soothingly. "I mean, it'll be nice, won't it, to – to be touched by someone who wants to touch you? Who wants you to feel good?" She doesn't say Robert's name, doesn't make the connection directly, but she doesn't have to. They're both thinking of the lies they didn't know about until it was too late. But Frankie's voice is almost hypnotic, and Grace turns towards her, wanting more.

"And – you like you like to be cared for, don't you, Grace? To be treated right? It'll feel so, so good to have someone take care of you." Her fingers brush over the sensitive skin on Grace's inner arm. 

Grace shivers involuntarily, her entire body prickling with sensation. Oh. _Oh_. She's getting caught up in this fantasy Frankie's spinning, and now she remembers what it feels like to be wanted. 

"Someone who knows how you want to be touched." Frankie's nails scratch, just a little, as she shifts against Grace.

Grace shivers again, fighting not to gasp, not to do anything that'll make Frankie stop. _Oh_. Maybe what Frankie's describing – maybe this is what she wants, after all. Maybe it can be good.

"And my lube'll make it all nice and easy for you," Frankie continues. "And – and for him, too. I mean, it'll be smooth sailing if you wanna give him a little – " She lifts her hand off Grace's skin and makes the unmistakable wrist-shaking gesture for _hand job_. 

The moment Frankie moves, Grace's arousal dissipates. Reality intrudes, and she takes a shaking breath. It doesn't matter what pretty stories they tell now. There's no way to make sure everything goes smoothly, lube or no lube, no matter what Frankie promises. Grace tenses, nervous all over again.

Frankie seems not to notice. She lays her hand over Grace's stomach and sighs, apparently content. "I'll leave you a jar, right in the drawer, and everything'll be good." 

"Thanks, Frankie," Grace says, her voice hoarse. She closes her eyes to keep the room from spinning. In two nights it'll be Guy in her bed, not Frankie, and that suddenly seems like the most terrifying abandonment possible.

  


* * *

  


It's not until the next morning, standing in front of the fridge and looking at a shelf full of little unlabelled jars of yam lube, that Grace really follows that thought through to its inevitable conclusion. She's invited Guy into her bed, and Frankie... Frankie's used to that space being hers. She can't – what if she walks in on them? Grace shudders, the threat of that much exposure prickling across her skin. She's going to have to tell Frankie to stay away.

Oh, Lord, she's a terrible friend. What's that awful saying Brianna was always throwing at Mallory when Mallory started dating Mitch? 'Hos before bros,' that's it, that's supposed to be the best friend code, isn't it? And here Grace is putting Guy in front of Frankie's needs. But what's the alternative?

"Good morning, starshine." Frankie comes down the stairs in a swirl of paisley, and Grace yelps and slams the fridge door shut. Inside, the lube jars clatter.

"Grace?" Frankie stops halfway across the kitchen, looking at her worriedly. "Something up?"

"I – Frankie – " Grace clasps her hands together, twisting her fingers nervously. She doesn't want to do this – doesn't want to be the reason Frankie feels unwanted, or too much of a burden. But Frankie's watching her with real concern now, and it would be worse to leave her hanging. "About Guy – "

"Oh, yeah!" Frankie walks over and eases Grace out of the way with a hand on her hip, opening the fridge again. "All the jars are the same, so you can just grab one. Help yourself." She picks up one of the jars and holds it up to the light, tilting it from side to side as if examining the consistency.

"Thank you," Grace says automatically. "But that's not what I meant. I mean – " She's glad the fridge is still open; the cool air feels good on her burning face. "When Guy is here – Frankie, you can't be."

"Oh?" Frankie lowers the lube jar and looks at Grace, uncertain. Then her eyes widen. " _Oh_. Oh. Yeah. I guess not!" She laughs, a wild cackle; Grace feels inexplicably offended by the ease of her amusement. "Oh, gosh, imagine if I just showed up. That'd be kinda awkward, wouldn't it?"

That's just what Grace was imagining. Awkward isn't quite the word. But Frankie's still going.

"I've had a few threesomes in my time, and let me tell you, nothing kills the vibe like making it a surprise." Frankie shakes her head, and Grace almost reaches out to thank her for taking this so well. Then she processes what Frankie said.

"Wait – threesomes? You? As in – plural?" Oh, God. Now she's thinking about it – about Frankie and Sol and some other faceless man, naked in bed together. Had it been Frankie's idea? Or... had Sol suggested it? Had Frankie just gone along, blind to Sol's desire to bring another man into their bed and what that meant? She wonders, unable to stop herself, whether this was before or after the time Sol asked Frankie to use a dildo on him, and then she shuts that train of thought down hard. 

"Okay, you got me, it was just the one." Frankie shrugs. "Nice gal, although I'm kinda glad we never saw her again. It woulda been weird. But my point stands. That's not the sort of thing you want to spring on anybody without advance warning."

Not... not a man. Frankie and another woman. That changes the picture in Grace's head and makes it much harder to dislodge. In Grace's mind, she's suddenly here, this other woman wanted by Frankie. She's soft and curvy, hips and a waist that invite the gentle touch of a hand, and a long graceful neck that just begs to be kissed. She's got dark hair, Grace thinks, and green eyes that crinkle when she smiles, and her name is Dahlia or something else ridiculous and hippie that only someone as unselfconscious as Frankie could call out and mean it. 

She gapes at Frankie. "Really?"

Frankie puts the lube back in the fridge and shuts the door before looking up at Grace with a small grin. "What, you don't believe me, Grace? Sorry, we didn't take photos. Not of that, anyway. Some of the other stuff we got up to in the Seventies, sure. I can try and dig them out for you – "

"That's... really okay," Grace says. She's still having trouble getting her imagination under control. She'd rather live with some plausible deniability, even if it means Dahlia's left smirking in her mind. 

"Thought so." Frankie chuckles again. Then she sobers quickly and looks up at Grace. "So, should I get out of your way tonight?"

"No," Grace says quickly. "No, not tonight, tonight is – " _normal, fine, business as usual_ , she thinks. "Tonight isn't a problem. But tomorrow...?"

"Okay," Frankie says. She opens the fridge again, considers the contents, and then changes her mind and pulls her waffles out of the freezer instead. "Good to know."

Grace watches her a moment longer, but Frankie doesn't look back.

  


* * *

  


Guy leaves, and Grace is alone in the kitchen. 

It's a mess, or as much of a mess as it gets when she cooks without Frankie there. She may have gotten a little carried away. 

When she woke up in bed next to Guy, her first instinct was to hurry downstairs and make him the sort of extravagant breakfast that seemed appropriate. The kind of breakfast she vaguely remembers her mother making her father, on rare happy weekend mornings; the kind of breakfast she made when the girls were young enough. Eggs, with golden yolks spilling over crisp brown toast; orange juice, the glass cool and sweating in your hand, the pulp bursting in jolts of flavour on your tongue; and bacon, which has always been the rarest treat, first because of the cost and then. Well.

It's the kind of breakfast that says _everything is wonderful_ , that says _I'm so happy_ , and Guy certainly seemed to take it that way. But Grace looks at the detritus – the dirty plates, the pile of leftover bacon – and thinks it's very clear just how hard she's trying to put on a good show.

She tosses the spatula in the sink, where it lands with a satisfying clatter, and yanks open the dishwasher to jam the plates and utensils in. She picks up the platter of bacon, meaning to dump it in the compost, but something stays her hand. _What a waste_ , she thinks, disgusted with herself. 

Grabbing a piece, she bites into it, still angrily. It tastes good, if not as good as she remembers, but it feels heavy in her mouth, dry and greasy at once and almost choking. But she chews, and she swallows, and she reaches for another piece, almost automatically. It's what she wanted, after all, isn't it?

Isn't it?

She made her bed; now she'll damn well lie in it.

Just like with Guy. She forces down another piece, angry and disgusted and sad. She'd wanted something good, and reality was so disappointing. 

There's a pain in her stomach now, but there's still bacon, and she chews and swallows, the motion mechanical. She knows exactly how she'll feel later, but she can't make herself stop. There are no surprises left for her, after all. Last night proved that.

No. That's not quite right. She remembers, last night, stopping Guy with a coy hand on his chest, a whispered plea to wait, before turning to reach for the bedside table. Frankie had said she'd leave Grace some lube, and when Grace needed it, it was there. She hadn't wondered, hadn't checked beforehand. She'd just... trusted. 

She trusted Frankie. Now that was a surprise.

The rest of the night wasn't. Oh, Frankie had been right about some of it. It was nice to be held by someone who wanted her, to enjoy the human connection of skin against skin. With the lube, the sex had been... okay. Not bad, exactly. Just... not good.

And now here she is, the morning after, with everything she wanted. Including the fucking bacon.

"Helloooooo," Frankie sing-songs from behind her, and Grace jumps, nearly upsetting her plateful of bacon all over the floor. She barely gets control over her face before Frankie swings around the island and plops down into the chair next to her. "So," Frankie demands, propping her elbow on the counter and her chin on her hand. "How was it?"

Grace is glad she has a mouthful of bacon, because it gives her a moment to catch her breath. She swallows and licks her lips, trying to ignore the film of grease, left behind, that seems to be coating her tongue and teeth and throat. 

Frankie looks at her, then at the bacon, then back. She reaches a tentative hand towards the plate and picks up a strip. Grace almost says something – it's the real stuff, not the facon Frankie insists tastes better, and she'll never hear the end of it if Frankie doesn't know she's touching animal flesh. But instead of eating it, Frankie fiddles with it absently, like she just wants something to do while she talks. It's crisp now that it's cooled, and it crumbles, leaving a scattering of bacon dust across the counter. 

Grace should give her hell for wasting food. Instead, she lets herself take a breath. Lets Frankie take some of the burden. 

"Did you find the lube?" Frankie demands, and just like that, Grace's slight feeling of goodwill dissipates.

"It was fine," she says, aiming for an air of detachment that will convince Frankie she doesn't want to continue the conversation without actively pushing her away.

It doesn't quite work. Frankie frowns and rubs her hands on her robe, smearing bacon grease on it. She reaches for the plate again, and Grace still doesn't stop her.

Frankie toys with a second piece of bacon. "Was it that bad?" she asks, not looking at Grace, and Grace is almost, almost tempted to answer honestly. "I mean, Grace," and Frankie looks up, now, a smile or perhaps a grimace tugging at the side of her mouth, "did you even come?"

"Oh my God, Frankie!" Grace exclaims. She literally recoils from the question, as though creating physical distance between them will keep Frankie from asking anything further.

No such luck.

"That's a no," Frankie mutters. "Really? Even with the lube?" She sounds personally offended.

"Frankie, I – I'm not – I'm _not_ going to talk about this with you," Grace insists. She can't believe they're even contemplating it, here in the bright morning light. 

"Grace, I just..." Frankie sighs and reaches for another strip of bacon. The plate's almost empty now. "I just hope it was good for you, is all." It echoes the conversation they had in bed the other night, and Grace feels herself warm at the memory. "You deserve good things," Frankie continues. "And you oughtta be able to ask for what you need."

She shrugs and gets up, leaving a little pyramid of crumbled bacon like an obelisk to mark her place. Tilting her head in a silent farewell, she leaves, as if talking to Grace was all she came in to do in the first place.

Grace pulls the plate back towards her and picks up the last strip of bacon. She chews on it slowly, thoughtfully, and though it's cold, it's less cloying, less choking than it was before. She feels better in general, in fact, but she refuses to examine the feeling too closely. Instead she stands, steeling herself to scrub the greasy pan back into sparkling cleanliness before she gets in the shower herself to wash away the disappointments of the night.

Guy calls later to check in, which Grace appreciates. He's clearly angling for another invite, though, and she sets all her persuasive skills to work in order to put him off without making him feel unwanted. She does her laundry, changes the sheets, and when she crawls into bed that evening she wonders whether she shouldn't feel different, somehow. 

It's not like it was her first time – but even after her first time, she hadn't felt changed so much as relieved: wanted, normal, able to join in the veiled conversations the other girls had over lunch. Her first time with Robert, though, that had been almost transformational. They hadn't gone all the way till after they were married, and when he rolled off her on their wedding night, smiling and sweaty, she finally felt confident she could be a good wife. Surely she should feel something now. Reassurance she's not going to be alone for the rest of her life, if nothing else.

She rolls over, looking at the empty bed beside her. She's so lucky. At her age, after so long, to have found someone who wants to be with her is practically a miracle. She shouldn't question it. Right? Isn't that right? She's not settling. This is more than she could've hoped for.

When she wakes in the middle of the night, alone and cold, she finds herself wishing not for Guy but for Frankie. Frankie would tell her how she ought to feel. Or at least, she'd tell her what's wrong with her, that she's doing everything right, doing everything she's supposed to, and yet still feels so... empty. 

She curls up into a tiny ball under the covers, trying to keep herself warm.

  


* * *

  


Her days fall into a new pattern.

Nights with Guy have their own habits already. He's eager, enthusiastic, and he does, truly, want to make her happy. She tries to remember what Frankie said – that she deserves good things – and to ask for what she needs, but it's easier, usually, to let Guy lead the way, to tip her head back and let her breath catch and clench her muscles just at the right time to make him shudder in her arms. She does occasionally come, and it's good enough, though she keeps herself tightly in check so he can't tell what's real and what's not. 

It's better, it's better than being alone, but oh, he's the worst cliché, falling asleep right after. Sometimes he wakes later just to take an Ambien, and that's even worse, somehow. When she wakes herself in the middle of the night, she tries to curl up to him; he sleeps on his back, flat and immobile, and she can't take any comfort from his stiff presence. Some mornings she wakes up, thinking Frankie will be there, only to find Guy instead.

And nights without Guy... well. Those are nights without Frankie, too. Grace should've expected that Frankie would stop coming to bed at all, but somehow, she didn't. It makes sense, though. What's Frankie going to do, ask her every day whether she's planning on having sex that night? 

Not that she'd put it past Frankie, if she really wanted to know.

Grace thinks she'd miss Frankie less if she and Guy ever really talked in bed. But they don't. Or maybe if she and Frankie had ever really gotten good at talking during the day, they could make up for it then. Of course, Frankie's hardly around, now. She's mostly out with Jacob, from what Grace can tell, helping out at his market stall or running weird, unscientific experiments on anything from manure composition to yam vitality. Grace should be happy for her.

Grace is happy for her – for both of them. They're both making connections, creating new lives. They're not going to be stuck with each other by default.

But she misses her. And even when she's with Guy, she feels so alone.

  


* * *

  


They're sitting in the living room, she and Guy and their wine, killing time before bed as usual. Guy's twitchy, and she can't wait for him to take his evening Ambien and pass out so she can have a few precious moments to herself. He finishes his wine and reaches for the bottle, topping her glass up without being asked, and then sits back with a sigh.

"Grace," he says, "can I talk to you about something?" 

Grace feels a little ripple of fear, but she turns to face him, folding her hands in her lap and sitting attentively. "Of course, Guy." She clutches her wine glass a little tighter.

"You're – I've been thinking." Guy takes a deep breath, and Grace tries not to look visibly confused. "You're the first thing on my mind every morning. And you're the last thing I think about at night."

Grace remembers that morning, coming to the surface slowly, half expecting to roll over and find Frankie's hair covering both of their pillows, and how odd she'd felt to see Guy flat on his back instead. "Well," she says, aiming for levity and falling flat, "that only makes sense, because I'm always there, aren't I."

"Grace." Guy reaches for her hand, and she peels one from the stem of her glass and lets him have it. "That's not what I mean. Look, I was talking to Frankie the other day..."

"Uh," Grace says intelligently. Frankie? Guy's been telling Frankie all about how he can't stop thinking about Grace? What did Frankie think about that?

"And she said, you know, what you think about most is what's most important to you." He frowns. "I think she was talking about alpacas when she said it, but never mind. Because you are important to me."

He's looking in her eyes, holding her hand tightly, and though his grip is cool, Grace thinks she should be feeling warmer. Feeling something.

"I'm falling in love with you," Guy says. Openly, meaningfully, honestly.

"Oh," Grace manages.

After a horrible moment of frozen surprise, she leans forward, putting her wine down quickly on the table and pressing her head to his chest, wrapping her arm around him. "Oh, Guy," she whispers, cuddling close, nuzzling her cheek against his solid shoulder. His hand comes to rest on her back and he kisses the top of her head, and though Grace's knees start to protest after a moment, she makes herself stay there so Guy can't see her face. 

She clings to him, her heart racing, but all she can feel is the pain in her knees. Everything else is emptied out of her. What's wrong with her, she thinks, terrified. Is she actually broken? She should feel... happy. Shouldn't she? The most wonderful man in the world, and he loves her – and more, he's willing to say it, to bare his soul to her. She should be _ecstatic_. But all she can think about is Frankie, telling her – it seems so long ago – to think before she built another relationship on lies.

Guy tightens his grip. "Come to bed," he says softly, and Grace pulls away, summoning up a smile.

"I'll be there as soon as I finish my wine," she promises.

Guy chuckles, kissing her. "Of course you will. I'll be waiting."

"O-okay." Grace grabs her wine glass as he stands. He turns to blow her another kiss and she gives him an awkward little salute, raising the glass in his direction. 

When he disappears upstairs, she doesn't start drinking right away. Instead she sits staring at the wall, her thoughts chasing themselves in wild circles. She's got another chance, now, doesn't she? At a life with someone who loves her? She should grab it with both hands. And yet, Frankie's right. She lived so long with someone who didn't love her, and who lied about it. If she can't return Guy's feelings... 

She bites her lip, then takes a long swallow of wine. Coughing a little, she surfaces.

She can't make a decision tonight. She needs to talk to Frankie.

Grace stares down at her wine, tipping it back and forth, watching it coat the sides of the glass. How long, she wonders, will it take Guy to fall asleep?

  


* * *

  


It's been... wow. Grace frowns. It's been a _while_ since she went out to Frankie's studio. She got so used to Frankie coming to her. Now she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, a wave of nerves curling in her stomach. What if Frankie doesn't want her there? Maybe she should wait.

No. She needs Frankie. Needs her advice. She knocks quickly and pushes the door open, before she can talk herself out of it.

"Grace!" Frankie sounds surprised and delighted. She's sitting on the sofa with her sketchpad, but she looks up with a startled smile. And then she puts the pad down and stands quickly, her smile fading. "Is everything okay?"

"Does something have to be wrong for me to come see you?" Grace tries for nonchalant, but her voice shakes. Of course Frankie doesn't believe Grace came to visit just for the pleasure of her company. Why would she? They've hardly crossed paths for days.

Frankie purses her lips. "Nooo," she says, but her gaze rakes over Grace's body, and she doesn't seem convinced.

Grace sighs. "I just... wanted to talk to you about something. Can I?"

"Yeah, of course, of course!" Frankie looks around quickly before taking a breath and gesturing to the sofa. Grace braces herself in turn and walks over. 

They sit awkwardly on opposite sides, leaving space between them. Grace can't figure out how to cross it. She wishes she'd brought a drink after all. Instead, she folds her hands together in her lap, staring at them. 

" _Is_ everything okay?" Frankie asks again. This time it's less accusative, more concerned. "Are you all right? Is... is Guy?"

Well. That's the question, isn't it. "Guy..." Grace sighs. "Frankie, Guy told me you and he were talking the other day. About the important things in life, or something."

"Uh. Yes?" Frankie frowns slightly. "You're not mad I talk to your boyfriend, are you? I mean, he's always there, Grace. It'd be kinda rude just to ignore him. And anyway, I was distracted thinking about whether we could use alpaca manure on Jacob's yams."

Of course she was thinking about Jacob. Grace nearly gets up and leaves at that, but Frankie reaches across the space between them and covers Grace's clasped hands with hers. "What's up with Guy, Grace?" she says gently, and Grace shivers and grabs Frankie's warm hand, twining their fingers together.

It gives her the strength she needs. "Guy told me he loves me," she blurts. If she hadn't been clinging so tightly to Frankie's hand, Grace would have missed the shudder that goes through her; it doesn't show on her face.

"So. Good for you," Frankie says. Her grip on Grace relaxes. "When's the wedding?"

Grace gasps. That hurt, and she thinks it was meant to. "Frankie," she says, pained.

"Well." Frankie tugs her hand away, withdrawing back into her corner of the couch and looking anywhere but at Grace. "Not a lot of time to waste, isn't that right? Now that you know what you want, you're gonna go for it, aren't you?"

"But I _don't_ ," Grace says. "He said it to me, but I..." She swallows hard. "I didn't say it back. I... don't know if I can."

Frankie looks up.

"Frankie, what's _wrong_ with me?" It's almost a wail. "Guy is handsome, and charming, and funny, and _tall_ , and – and he _loves_ me, Frankie, he loves _me_. It should be easy to fall in love with him, shouldn't it? Why can't I fall in love with – with the most wonderful man in the world?"

Frankie reaches out again, her face softening, but Grace pulls away, wrapping her arms around her waist and holding herself tight.

"Oh, Grace." Frankie's mouth moves for a moment, and when she speaks, she does it slowly, like she's choosing all her words with care. "There's no magic formula, you know that. You can't make yourself feel something." Grace scoffs at that, but Frankie presses on. "I – I mean, maybe you just need time. Or maybe Guy isn't right for you after all. Maybe there's something else you want. How – how do you feel about him? Do you want him around? Do you miss him when he's gone? Are you just super-duper happy to see him every time he shows up?"

"I'm doing everything right, though," Grace says, clutching herself harder and trying not to shake. "I'm – he's so nice, Frankie. But I miss – I miss _you_." She didn't mean to say that, but now she has, she can't seem to stop. "I miss talking to you, like we used to. I miss – and I know you've got Jacob now, I know you're happy, but I – I'd rather have that! I'd rather have that than settle for some – some man who doesn't make me happy even though he _should_." She stutters to a stop, exhausted, and lets herself curl forward. "What's wrong with me?" she asks again. "What should I do?"

"Grace, honey." Frankie lays a careful hand on her back. When Grace doesn't jerk away, Frankie starts rubbing gentle circles. "You should... you should have what makes you feel good. Forget what else you should do, okay? I'll – you know I'll be here for you, right?" Grace doesn't look up, but she nods miserably. "But I can't tell you what to do. I can't. It wouldn't be right."

"Oh!" Grace shoots bolt upright at that, her sadness forgotten in a blazing dart of anger. "You're perfectly happy to tell me what to do and what not to do all the fucking time, Frankie! 'Don't waste water, Grace.' 'Donate to the San Diego Reptile Rescue, Grace.' 'Use my lube in a jar instead of a normal tube you can actually open, Grace.' Now – now that I'm finally asking for your help, how come you won't give it?"

Frankie won't meet her eyes. "I just... it wouldn't be fair. It's not my decision!"

"I _want_ you to," Grace demands. "Frankie, I _want_ you – oh." She stops, suddenly hearing herself. _I want you_. "Oh, my god." 

Frankie's hand, still on her back, is like a brand, a realisation burning through her. She can feel this simple touch more vividly than anything she's done with Guy, and she's sought it out more desperately, too. _I want you_ , she thinks again, and oh, God, it's true. She's never even said it to Guy, never dreamed of doing so, and now she can't take it back from Frankie. And she doesn't want to, doesn't want to deny it, deny herself, she doesn't want to do anything except say it again, and again. 

She can't believe how much she wants to say it again. How much she wants...

Pressing a hand to her mouth, she stands up, quickly enough that her knees wobble. "I can't – I have to break up with him," she whispers, her eyes wide. Frankie stares back, silent and startled. Her hand has fallen empty onto the sofa cushion, but she doesn't move, as though she's just waiting for Grace to sit back down next to her. 

She holds Grace's gaze, and something flickers behind her eyes, something Grace doesn't want to give a name to, but she thinks looks a little like hope. "Why?" Frankie asks quietly, and Grace can't look away, she can't...

She turns and flees on unsteady legs before either of them can say anything else.

  


* * *

  


If there's one thing Grace prides herself on, it's making a decision and sticking to it. No matter... what else happens, she has to break up with Guy. It wouldn't be fair to him to keep stringing him along. She thinks, for a brief cowardly moment, about just calling him, letting herself have that distance. But that wouldn't be fair, either, would it. He's supposed to come over for dinner. She can do it then.

Even though she spends the afternoon steeling herself, his face as he walks into the kitchen almost undoes all her resolve. He just looks so happy to see her. When's the last time someone looked at her like that – the last time she made someone look like that?

As Guy puts a hand on her back and leans in to kiss her, she remembers Frankie, in her studio, looking up to see Grace coming through the door and lighting up with surprise and joy. She twitches away from Guy without meaning to, and he stops, looking at her uncomfortably. "Grace?" he asks, stepping back.

"Uh... do you want to sit down, Guy?" she suggests, gesturing to the chairs at the island.

He takes another step back, his face falling. "No," he says slowly, "I think I might want to take this standing on my feet."

"I'm so sorry," she says, wringing her hands helplessly.

"No, I am. I knew I shouldn't'a said anything." Guy sighs, resigned. "I mean – I'm not getting this wrong, am I? This isn't a chat about how we should go away for a weekend, is it?" Wordless, Grace shakes her head. "This is about how I said I loved you when I shouldn't." 

Grace nods, biting her lip. "It's just – it's not you, Guy, really it's not. You're a wonderful, wonderful man, and I – I just – "

"Yeah." Guy runs his hand over the back of the chair, looking around. "Am I moving too fast? I don't wanna rush you, Grace. If you need some time or something, I can give it to you." 

It's so, so tempting. But it wouldn't be right, and Grace has to shake her head again. 

Guy lifts his hand as if he's going to reach out and then balls it up into a fist and lowers it again. "Is – is there someone else?" he asks.

Grace can't bring herself to reply. The words stick in her throat. She's determined not to lie, but she doesn't know quite what to say. "It's just... me," she says simply, and that's true enough. "I don't feel the same way, Guy, and I don't want to lead you on under – under false pretences. I'm sorry." She shrugs and spreads her hands.

"Wow. Okay." Guy stands still for a moment, stunned. "I won't – I won't tell you I'm not hurt, because I am." Grace takes the blow. She deserved that. "But I hope, maybe, we can stay friends?"

"I'd like that," Grace says, a little choked up, and it's not a lie at all.

"Maybe we can get together for a round of golf." That's a pretty weak joke, but at least Guy is trying. 

Grace laughs through her tears and remembers: all this came about, really, because Frankie encouraged her to be honest. "Maybe," she says with a genuine smile.

"So, that's it, huh?" Guy looks around. "Well. I guess I'll clear out. It's been... it's been real nice, Grace. I had a good time."

"Me too, Guy," Grace says, letting him pull her into a hug, and if that isn't entirely honest, it's not entirely a lie either, and she's happy with that. She lets him hold her for a long moment, lets herself enjoy feeling enveloped, and then she lets go, and he does too. 

"You take care," he says, touching her cheek. "Bye, Grace."

"Bye," she whispers, watching him walk back out the door.

She doesn't feel relieved, just numb. She turns, a little blindly, making her way out of the kitchen. Forget dinner; whatever appetite she had is gone. Instead, she curls up in a chair in the library, tucking her feet to her chest and hugging them close. She rests her chin on her knees and stares at the wall.

She doesn't know how long it is before Frankie comes in. Between one breath and the next, maybe, she's there, sitting in the other chair. "Hey," Frankie says softly, and Grace tips her head to look at her. "I heard Guy's truck leave, pretty quick after it arrived, and I thought, uh. Did you..."

"I broke up with him," Grace says dully. Even now, she wants – wants Frankie to take her hand and hold her and soothe her. Instead, she turns away. She doesn't deserve it, not after hurting Guy.

"Oh, honey. It'll be okay," Frankie says. Hearing her voice eases something in Grace, lets her unwind a little and come a bit closer to believing what she's being told. "It's better this way, I promise," Frankie continues, and Grace tries to take comfort from that. Part of her wants to read more into everything Frankie is saying, sudden secret hope blooming under her skin, and she throttles that part viciously, forcing it back down. Just another thing she doesn't deserve.

Frankie sits with her for a while longer, but she doesn't reach out, and Grace can't bring herself to move or to respond in any way. Eventually Frankie gets up and leaves, and Grace is alone again.

  


* * *

  


It's dark by the time Grace comes back to herself. She's stiff, and she staggers a bit when she stands up, wincing as the blood starts flowing sluggishly through her legs again. She considers trying to have some food, considers too the effort versus the reward in making a martini, and ultimately doesn't have the energy for anything except dragging herself up to bed, one slow stair at a time. 

She flips on her bedroom light and takes a few steps into the room before it registers that something's different. She blinks and looks around, and after a moment, it hits her. She made her bed this morning just like she does every morning, pillows aligned and corners taut. Now it's a mess, if a welcoming one. The duvet is pulled down, her pillows are fluffed, and... she looks again. Even the sheets have been changed.

She presses her hands to her mouth, overwhelmed. "Frankie," she whispers. Frankie's done all this. For her.

"Hi," Frankie says from the doorway.

Grace whirls around, but she's not surprised, not really. "Oh, Frankie," she says again, still a little stunned.

Frankie takes a step into the room, like she's not sure she's welcome, and then another. "I figured maybe you'd like a fresh start." She shrugs, still unsure.

Grace didn't cry after Guy left, but now she feels tears forming in her eyes. She can't speak. She's used to thinking of Frankie as flighty, unobservant. She can't believe how wrong she was, how much Frankie sees. How much she cares.

Frankie seems to take the silence as a dismissal. She reaches out and lays a hand on Grace's arm, squeezing gently. "It'll be okay, Grace. I'll see you tomorrow, hey?"

She turns to leave, and Grace barely stops herself from grabbing her, holding her there. "Wait," she says instead. "Wait, Frankie, aren't..." She gestures towards the bed and tries not to look too pathetic. "Aren't you staying?" She bites her lip, hoping.

Frankie stumbles, like she missed a step. When she turns back, she's grinning wide and bright, and Grace feels a smile blossom on her own face in response. "Yeah," Frankie says. "I'd like that."

Frankie pulls off her robe and makes her way to her side of the bed. For a moment, Grace just watches, smiling helplessly. And then she can't wait any longer: she moves quickly, rushing through her evening routine, so eager to slide under the waiting covers that she only bothers with one moisturising serum.

When she lies back and pulls the duvet up, she can feel herself relaxing, feel sore muscles unknotting, and she makes a soft sound of relief. Frankie rolls over to face her, and Grace turns on her side too. She's still smiling. "I missed this," she says, like she's sharing a secret. The words are weighted, now, in a way they weren't before.

"Yeah?" Frankie wiggles and squirms, making herself comfortable. Grace has the fanciful thought that she's reshaping the mattress so it fits her properly once more. "Tell me why."

"Yeah, I just..." She shrugs as well as she can lying down. "There's so much I wanted to talk to you about, and I couldn't. And now..." She can see the sweep of Frankie's eyelashes as she blinks and they brush across her cheeks. They're so close. Under the covers, the heat of Frankie's body is stealing across the little space they've left. "Now you're here."

"Now I'm here," Frankie confirms, and Grace smiles even wider. 

She can't help herself. She's so happy. If she thinks about it too hard, the strangeness of that makes her breath catch. So happy, after such a trying day? She just said goodbye to a truly lovely man, and to the best chance she had at putting back together the life she always thought she'd have. 

Guy should have made her happy. He didn't. And having Frankie here again, having this back, is more than Grace expected. More than she deserves. 

As if she can see into Grace's mind, Frankie chooses that moment to ask, "So, how's it feel to have kicked Guy to the curb?" She curls herself tighter around her pillow. Her knees brush Grace's.

Grace stops smiling and takes a sharp breath. "I don't... I don't really know," she says slowly. 

Frankie makes an encouraging noise. 

"I should feel terrible, Frankie. He was such a nice man, and I know I hurt him. He said so." This time Frankie's reaction is sharper, angrier. Confession should feel like self-flagellation, but Frankie's protective response just makes Grace warm all over.

Grace takes another breath. Even here, it's hard for her to admit this. "I don't like failing," she says, dragging the words out of herself one by one. "And I failed, with Guy. I couldn't – I gave up trying to be happy with him. Maybe if I'd just tried harder..." She trails off, because Frankie is looking at her with so much kindness and understanding.

"Grace, honey," Frankie says, and Grace feels herself blush, though she isn't sure why. "You didn't want to be with him, did you?" Grace shakes her head. "You wanted to break up with him." Grace nods. "So you did the right thing. Now. Here's the real important question." She takes Grace's hand, rubbing her thumb over Grace's knuckles. "What do you want now?"

Grace swallows against a dry mouth. "I want... I want..." She can't think, not when she's so focussed on Frankie's skin against hers. When's the last time she really wanted something? It's so much easier just to go along. Well, maybe when she decided to try out the dating app to begin with. She wanted that to work, because... "I don't want to have to wake up every day alone," she says quickly. Now she'll have to go back to the app, won't she? If she wants someone to spend her nights with?

"I can wake you up, Grace," Frankie says. 

Grace shakes her head, refusing to hope. But it's so nice to say this out loud. To Frankie. "It's not just that, it's... I want to fall asleep with someone. In – in someone's arms." There. That's an unambiguous desire, isn't it? She closes her eyes. She doesn't want to see Frankie react.

"Sweetheart," Frankie says, the word soft and tender as her touch, sliding up Grace's arm, over her shoulder, to cup her cheek. Grace gasps and nuzzles into the warmth despite herself. She keeps her eyes closed. "I can do that too," Frankie whispers. 

The bed shifts. She's moved closer. Grace reaches out, just a little. Her hand finds the curve of Frankie's waist under the covers. She rests it there, barely breathing.

"Grace," Frankie says from closer still. "What do you think about that?"

Grace opens her eyes. 

Frankie's right there, looking back. Her thumb rubs along Grace's cheekbone, now. They're breathing the same air. Grace inhales. "I'd like that," she says sincerely. "Frankie, I – I want that."

"Yeah?" Frankie asks. 

"I want you," Grace breathes, and oh, to say that and mean it sends a thrill through her entire body. She gasps.

Frankie's trembling now. Grace can feel it, through the covers, through the mattress. "Grace, can I – I want – " she says, stuttering, stumbling. 

Grace doesn't care. She nods rapidly. Whatever Frankie wants, she wants.

Frankie closes the rest of the distance between them, and Grace tightens her arm around Frankie's waist and holds her as tight as she possibly can. Everywhere Frankie touches, Grace is warm, and the heat is spreading though the rest of her body. And then Frankie kisses her, and Grace is on fire.

"Oh," Grace says, against Frankie's mouth, " _oh_ ," and Frankie makes a surprised sound in return, and Grace burns hotter. 

This is – this isn't like kissing Guy, or Robert, or even Byron, in that adrenaline-fuelled moment in the kitchen. Frankie's lips are soft, promising rather than demanding, and Grace can feel every part of herself respond. Her cheeks tingle, and her fingers, and her toes, all of her coming awake, alert, focussed on Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. 

Frankie's taste, the way she whimpers when Grace nips at her bottom lip, how she takes a breath and then takes control of the kiss again, making Grace shudder and cling to her. Frankie's hair in their mouths, and Frankie's laugh, that delighted sound tripping up the scale like a shiver up Grace's spine. Grace sinks her hands into Frankie's hair to pull it back, all that hair, and just that is almost overwhelming, sending sparks sizzling under Grace's skin until she's sure she's glowing.

This is what Grace wants, just this.

And she has it, she can have it, Frankie, who she can't stop thinking about, her most important thing, she – 

"Wait!" She pulls away, gasping, memory a splash of cold water over the flames licking through her body. 

Frankie's breathing hard, too, but she slides back, putting a bit more space between them. Grace shivers at the chill.

"Frankie, wait, aren't you – Jacob?" God, she can't even form full sentences. Every part of her brain is taken up with fighting the desire to pull Frankie to her again, to revel in how perfectly they fit, how good it feels.

"What?" Frankie sounds slightly unhinged. Grace takes a little – a very little – joy in that.

"You – and he – aren't you?" Grace waves a hand between their bodies, not wanting to speak the words out loud. What if saying them makes it real, and then she has to stop kissing Frankie forever? She'll do it – no more lies – but the possibility is terrifying.

"Oh!" Frankie laughs. "Grace, honey, Jacob and I have a mutually beneficial business relationship based on yam science and alpaca shit. But that's all. I promise."

"Really?" Grace is ashamed at how desperate she sounds even to herself. "B-but he was flirting with you. I know he was."

"Yeah, well." Frankie wrinkles her nose and smiles shyly. Her lips are a bit swollen. Grace can't stop staring at them. "Turns out he never had a chance. Someone else got to me first."

Something rises in Grace's chest at that, a bubble of emotion that chokes her and makes tears well in her eyes. "You... how long?" she forces out. She never imagined having this – did she? – but now that she does, she's struck by the possibility she could have had it before.

"Oh, Grace, no!" Frankie reaches out and gathers her in close, kissing her forehead. "No, I never really believed – and it doesn't matter, does it? The past is an illusion. Embrace the now." 

Grace sniffles, but she nods against Frankie's chest. It's easier to let go of a hypothetical past when she's in Frankie's arms for real.

"Besides," Frankie adds, "what was I gonna say? 'Hey, Grace, sometimes you look at me like you want me to make you scream, and not because I lost the remote control again'?"

She laughs, but Grace suddenly can't catch her breath. "Uh," she manages, grabbing a fistful of Frankie's shirt, and Frankie looks down, her gaze darkening at once.

"Really," she says, disbelieving but determined.

Grace doesn't know how to answer. Instead she tugs at Frankie's shirt, wanting her closer again.

Instead of kissing her, Frankie shifts them both, rolling so Grace is on her back and – oh – and Frankie is on top of her, heavy against her. They're pressed together all along their lengths, that warmth is rising in her again, and Grace whimpers and arches up, letting her head fall back.

Frankie takes the opportunity to kiss her neck, then to nudge the collar of her pyjama shirt aside and kiss her shoulder. Grace clutches at her. "Is that something you want, Grace?" Frankie murmurs against her skin. "You want me to make you scream?"

Make her _scream_? Grace has never lost control in bed, never made a sound she hadn't calculated and practiced. The idea of being driven beyond that should scare her. And yet she can't stop wanting – and now she's imagining it, what else Frankie might do, what it might feel like to let herself go and trust Frankie will be there to catch her. "Yes," she gasps, pulling Frankie closer. "Frankie, yes."

Frankie moans, and her kisses get rougher. Her mouth is so good. Grace wants it everywhere. Briefly, she thinks, _Talk about moving fast_ , but she dismisses the thought as soon as it forms. They've been building to this for months. Ever since she asked Frankie into her bed.

Maybe longer. Maybe all that time Grace couldn't handle being in the same room as Frankie for more than five minutes. Maybe every time Frankie got under her skin. Maybe, just maybe. And maybe Frankie had been feeling the same.

The thought burns through Grace. It feels like she remembers, all at once, every time she fled Frankie's presence, flustered, overheated. Every time it was just too much to summon her usual veneer of social politeness, because all her energy was already taken up with everything she was refusing to acknowledge. She still can't articulate it all. But she can't deny those desires any longer either. They're taking shape, more concrete with every moment. She wants, she wants – her mouth on the curve of Frankie's hip, the weight of Frankie's breast in her hand, more and more and _more_ of the little noises Frankie keeps making.

It's already almost too much. Everything all at once, flooding into her, and Frankie touching her, Frankie's hair against her palms. She can't – she doesn't know what she should want first. She doesn't know what she should do.

Frankie, though. Maybe Frankie knows. If she was serious about that threesome, if she wasn't teasing – Grace needs, suddenly, desperately, to know whether Frankie told her the truth. She tugs on Frankie's hair, just enough to urge her to pull back.

Frankie's eyes are unfocussed – just from kissing her, Grace thinks deliriously – and she smiles dreamily, leaning in again. Grace meets her halfway, their mouths sliding together; already they know how to kiss each other, how to breathe and touch and fit, and there's so much more to learn but what if it all comes so easily? Can it be this simple? Grace almost loses her train of thought again. 

She catches it, between one kiss and the next, and turns her face away, kissing Frankie's cheek instead. She nudges Frankie's shoulder and Frankie rolls to the side, looking at her quizzically. Grace follows, hooking a leg between Frankie's and sliding close. She doesn't want Frankie to feel rejected, but she does need to know...

"Tell me something, Frankie," she says, her voice low and hoarse. 

"Uh. Yeah. What?" Frankie licks her lips, and Grace's pulse leaps. She can feel it pounding in her chest, her neck, her wrists... and between her legs. 

Focus, Grace. Focus. "What you said... you said... before. About, uh, the Seventies, and you... did you _really_ have a threesome?" she demands.

Frankie smiles, but it's not the smug smirk she had last time they talked about this. It's fond, indulgent. "I did. What, now you want to hear about it? That what you're into?" 

She rolls her hips against Grace's, and Grace stifles a gasp at the pressure, how the heat in her builds. Oh, God. More of that, yes.

She schools herself to discipline and forges ahead. "I don't, no. I just thought... I thought maybe you were teasing me?" It comes out as a question despite herself.

"Grace, I wouldn't," Frankie says indignantly. Then she pauses and reconsiders. "Okay, that would've been kinda funny. But, honey, I promise, I wouldn't lie to you. Not about something like that. I mean, maybe about whether I know where the remote control is." 

She pauses again, and Grace can see the moment when she wonders where, exactly, the remote control is right now. It's adorable, and she has to kiss the worry off Frankie's face. This time it's Frankie who breaks the kiss and pulls back.

"So, if you don't want to hear all the sordid details," she says, wiggling her eyebrows like Groucho Marx, "then what's the point of this little trip down memory lane?"

Grace bites her lip and looks away. It's ridiculous to feel this nervous when they're all tangled up together. But she likes vulnerability about as much as she likes failure, and it takes all her energy to ask, "So... if you were serious... you know what to do, then? I mean... what we should... do?"

"Oh, _Grace_ ," Frankie says, and Grace still can't meet her eyes. Frankie chucks her under the chin, nudging her to look up. "There's no should, baby," she says. "There's just what you want. There's just what makes you feel good."

For all the glorious pressure of their bodies together, Grace hasn't really let her hands wander, restricting herself to Frankie's hair and her back and the curve of her waist. And Frankie, in that understanding way of hers, has followed her lead. Now she draws one hand down from its place between Grace's shoulder blades, following the curve of her spine, until she can palm Grace's ass. 

Grace squeaks, an embarrassing noise, and rocks up helplessly against Frankie.

"You just tell me what feels good," Frankie says, bending to press her mouth to Grace's chest, just above the first button on her shirt.

"Oh – Frankie – I – " She can't, she can't let go like this, she can't – "I want to make _you_ feel good," she says brokenly, fumbling for the hem of Frankie's shirt, sliding her hand beneath it to touch Frankie's skin. That's what usually brings Grace the most pleasure, after all: watching the effect she has on her partners. 

As she runs her hand higher, up over Frankie's ribcage, Frankie hisses and arches into her touch, and that gives Grace a familiar thrill – but there's so much more to it, now, it's so much deeper, because Frankie's response means something to Grace. She feels it, not just as pride in performing the proper steps, but as an accomplishment, another need stoking the fire in her belly. That's new, and almost overwhelming. She touches Frankie, wants Frankie to touch her, and the pleasure doubles and redoubles, growing deep inside of her.

But beneath that desire, there's an unfamiliar fear. Grace hasn't worried about being good in bed for decades. She's always known the moves to her side of the dance. This is completely new territory. What if she doesn't measure up?

She's getting tense, though she doesn't quite realise it, her muscles locking up, and Frankie raises her head. "Hey, Grace, honey, you still with me?" she asks. Grace nods jerkily, and Frankie strokes her cheek, pushing her hair back off her face. "You're thinking too much. Just feel."

Grace laughs sharply. "Not exactly my forté."

"Do you want to pause for a quick meditation break?" Frankie sounds entirely sincere. 

Grace does a double take. Surely not... and yes, there's that twinkle in Frankie's eye that Grace knows too well. The corner of Frankie's mouth turns down, twitches, and then she loses it, starting to laugh. For a split second, Grace thinks she ought to feel offended. But she doesn't, and Frankie's laughter is contagious, and then Grace is laughing, too, holding Frankie's shoulders, both of them laughing together like nothing else matters.

"Oh, gosh." Grace hiccups as she tries to catch her breath. She feels looser, lighter. Her need hasn't lessened, but the urgency has, and the fear. She squirms against Frankie. "I don't know if I've ever laughed in bed with anyone."

"Well, that's too bad." Frankie strokes her hair again, her cheek, her neck. "I like it when you laugh." 

"You do?" Grace shouldn't be surprised, but she is.

"Yeah." Frankie's touch drifts lower, over the silk of Grace's pyjama shirt. She traces an abstract design just under Grace's breast. It tickles, and Grace can't help herself: she squeaks. "See?" Frankie says. She brings her hand up, covering Grace's breast, rubbing over her nipple, and this time Grace whimpers.

Oh. Oh, is this what sex is supposed to feel like? Like she'll die if Frankie doesn't keep touching her; like she might fly out of her skin if Frankie doesn't stop?

"Now, I like that noise too," Frankie says, rubbing a little harder. "That feels good, doesn't it?"

Grace takes a shuddering breath through her nose and nods. Good? It feels fucking amazing.

"Tell me what makes you feel good, Grace," Frankie says again. "I wanna – I wanna touch you like you want, I – " She sighs. "I wanna know what you like." She shifts her attention to Grace's other breast and pinches her nipple through the silk. Grace wails, the shock of it electric. When she manages to open her eyes, Frankie's grinning. "Fuck, you're something. Let me take care of you. Tell me what you like."

Even if Grace had the words she doesn't know if she could use them, not like this, not with her legs tangled through Frankie's under the covers, Frankie's hand on her breast, Frankie smiling at her. So instead, she falls back on non-verbal communication. Meeting Frankie's gaze, she starts unbuttoning her own shirt. 

She's not putting on a show, but by the time she reaches the top button, Frankie's breathing hard anyway. Grace bites her lip, drawing her fingers back down over the strip of skin she's revealed. "You make me feel good, Frankie," she says, and means it. She rolls onto her back again and stretches her arms out invitingly.

"Sweet blessed Astarte," Frankie moans. "Grace, tell me what you want, _please_." 

The desperation in Frankie's voice drives Grace to press her legs together, needing relief. Oh – does Frankie sound like that because of her? Because of the way Grace is talking to her? Can she have this effect on Frankie just by – just by being honest?

There are so many things she wants. It's hard enough to sort through them, much less articulate them. But Frankie is looking at her, _needing_ her, and she wants to make her react.

"Your mouth," she says, thinking of how it felt when Frankie kissed her neck, her chest. "Frankie, I want – I want your mouth on me."

" _Yes_ ," Frankie says fervently. With a trembling hand, she pulls first one, then the other side of Grace's shirt open, baring her torso. Grace's nipples, already hard, tighten further in the cooler air.

Frankie ignores them. Instead she bends to kiss the slight swell of Grace's belly. She kisses Grace's sternum, the rise of her ribs, the underside of her left breast, and Grace rises up into her touch, already breathless. She combs her hands through Frankie's hair, pulling it back enough to see the blissful expression on Frankie's face, the way she concentrates on every inch of skin no matter where it is. Her mouth is hotter than her touch, searing, and everywhere she kisses makes Grace's need flame higher.

"Frankie," she says eventually, voice shaky. " _Please_."

"Please what?" Frankie plants a kiss on Grace's collarbone, nipping a bit so Grace yelps.

"Are – are you going to make me say it? Frankie..." Grace trails off and swallows. She'll try, if Frankie wants her to. She'll do anything to get Frankie's mouth where she wants it most.

Frankie looks at her with that fond little smile again. It should be at odds with their situation, but it's not. "Nah, I guess not. We can work up to it."

That's all the warning Grace gets before Frankie licks a hot stripe across the side of her breast and across her nipple. _Finally_. Oh, God, Frankie's mouth is warm and wet, her tongue gentle, it's so good – "That's so good, Frankie, please," and Frankie listens, moves to the other breast, sucks and nips and Grace clutches her hair, holding her close, writhing and practically sobbing with need. It's never been this good, never, no one's ever made her body feel like this, electric and aflame. But she doesn't know how to ask for what else she needs, not even from Frankie.

She doesn't have to.

Frankie pulls back, breathless, and leans up to kiss Grace again; it's sloppy, uncontrolled, and Grace moans into her mouth, says _please_ over and over. And then she realises Frankie's saying it too. 

"Please, baby, let me – do you still want my mouth, can I – I want to taste you, _please_ ," and Grace gasps, "Yes – Frankie, yes," desperate beyond self-consciousness.

Frankie sits up and shoves the covers to the floor; even though she's barely half-naked Grace feels horribly exposed. Then Frankie hooks her fingers into the waistband of Grace's pyjama pants and pulls, and the blatant need on her face eases Grace's fears. She kicks her pants away and Frankie settles between her thighs, and before Grace has time to get nervous again Frankie kisses her hipbone.

"You're so beautiful, baby," Frankie says, and the way she looks up at Grace silences all Grace's automatic self-deprecating responses. Frankie presses hot hands against Grace's belly, her palms rough with calluses from painting and sculpting; they drag against Grace's sensitive skin. "I can't – " Frankie falters, looking down, kissing Grace just under her navel. "I can't believe I – "

"Oh, Frankie." For a moment Grace's desire calms, enough that she hears a different note in Frankie's shaking voice. She fumbles for words, but she's been pared down to her essence. She offers up what she has. "Frankie, I need you, please, I – I want you."

It's enough. Frankie takes a breath and shifts backwards, kissing her way down Grace's thighs, teeth scraping and tongue promising. Her breath ghosts across Grace's skin and Grace moans. 

"How do you like it?" Frankie asks. She runs her fingers down between Grace's legs, over Grace's lips, and that makes Grace whine even louder, arousal overcoming her again. "What do you want?" 

"I – I don't – I've never – " Grace can't say any more, but again, Frankie understands her.

"Never? Oh, honey." She sounds a little sad, but also like she's facing a personal challenge.

"It's never been good," Grace blurts, tangling her hand in Frankie's hair. "Make it good."

That's all the permission Frankie needs. She lowers her head, easing Grace's legs wider. First she just looks, stroking Grace with her fingers, her gaze so intense that Grace can't watch, has to let her head fall back and give herself over to the building thrill of Frankie's touch. Frankie doesn't rush; she lets her fingers trail over every part of Grace, places Grace didn't know could feel so good: the soft swell of her outer lips, just where the skin becomes thin and tender, gets as much attention as the slickness between them. Grace has never touched herself there – she's barely touched herself ever – and the sensation is almost too intense. Already she's more turned on than she's ever been with anyone else. Her whole body is strung tight, waiting.

Frankie pulls her fingers away. Grace gasps in loss. And then Frankie's breath, and Frankie's mouth is there, and Grace makes a small choked ragged sound in the back of her throat. Frankie's tongue licks across Grace's skin, presses and pulses and teases and Grace rolls her hips into Frankie's face and rocks up and tries not to pull her closer. Frankie hums against her, a sharp little _mm!_ of approval, and _She likes it_ , Grace thinks, _she likes how I taste_. Somehow that's even more exciting, and she whines and she squirms and she wants, oh, she wants.

Frankie's already found all Grace's most sensitive spots, gotten Grace wet and swollen. Now she's settling into a rhythm. Grace, too, her hips rising, her back arching, her breath shallow and loud and the only other sound Frankie's mouth on her, which echoes shivering through her bones. 

"God, Frankie," she says, to break the silence, but also because she can't not speak, she can't stay quiet, not with Frankie's tongue pressed against her, Frankie's lips curled around her hot centre. "Frankie, please," and she doesn't know what she's asking for, except more, and so she says that too, "More, Frankie – I want – " 

"What do you want, baby," Frankie asks, pulling back just enough, nuzzling with her nose, then flicking the tip of her tongue across Grace's slick skin. Grace moans and her hips jerk up and Frankie gasps, a sharp cool inhalation.

 _Oh_. Frankie likes it when Grace asks her – tells her – and Grace parts dry lips, reaching for words she's never dared use. "C-can you – Frankie – inside me, lick my, my – "

" _Grace_ ," Frankie groans, and despite Grace's incoherence, she knows just what Grace wants. Her tongue pushes inside Grace, wet and hot, filling Grace in a way she never knew to ask for.

She wails and grabs at Frankie's hair, pulling her closer, never mind the laws of physics. "Make me _come_ , Frankie," she begs, "I want you to – I want to – oh, God, I _want_ – "

That's all she is now, want, want and her hand in Frankie's hair, Frankie's fingers pushing into her thighs, Frankie's tongue still pressing and pressing against her and the heat between her legs and in her belly spreading out through her veins until she's all ablaze and crying out "Frankie, Frankie – _God_ , Frankie," fire and stars dancing behind her eyelids.

Oh, God. Oh, God, it's so good. It's like nothing she's ever felt before. Not like the brief sharp spasms men sometimes brought forth from her body by accident or clumsy design, not like the releases she pretended to when she tired of their fumbling. This is everywhere, every part of her caught in the waves of inescapable feeling washing through her, uncontrollable, unending. Everywhere Frankie's mouth has been tingles with memory; everywhere she's put her hands burn again, wanting more. Grace shakes, her muscles stiff, her body lost in the grip of a pleasure stronger than it's ever known. And between Grace's legs, Frankie moans against Grace's flesh, sounding just as lost and overcome as Grace herself. Every sound wrings another wail from Grace, pushing her higher.

And then the orgasm leaves her, fading away slowly. Frankie gentles her down with soft licks and light touches, grounding her. She's not hot any more, just warm, limp like a melted candle, and Frankie's head on her thigh is the only solid thing holding her to reality as she comes back to herself. 

She pets Frankie's hair with trembling fingers. "Frankie," she says, voice rough. It might be the only thing she remembers how to say. She levers her head up with an effort, peering down her body.

Frankie meets her gaze with an impish grin and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. "Good?" she asks, and Grace lets her head drop back, lets herself laugh. They both laugh.

"Come here," she says, "come here, I want," and Frankie clambers onto hands and knees with a grunt and crawls up the bed. She's trembling, tension humming through her body, and now, finally, it's going to be Grace's turn to watch her. Because never mind that Grace just came harder than she ever has before – her desire hasn't lessened one bit, only shifted focus. The way Frankie looks and sounds still makes Grace weak with arousal. She doesn't just want to see Frankie come. She _needs_ to, almost as much as she needed to come herself. 

Grace sits up, shrugging out of her shirt, and kisses Frankie, heedless of her own taste slick on Frankie's lips, of anything except the way Frankie groans and grabs at her. "I want to see you," she says, "let me see you," reaching between Frankie's legs, cupping her. Here's where Frankie's hottest, burning through thin cotton on the tips of Grace's fingers. She grinds down against Grace's uncertain touch.

"I don't – need much," Frankie says with difficulty, reaching down to put Grace's fingers where she needs them and rocking forward. 

She's shaking. Just from touching Grace? Just from making her come? It seems impossible, until Grace presses back, rubbing, and Frankie jerks into her hand. _Oh_. Grace does it again, eyes wide. "Is that – is that right, Frankie?" she asks softly. Frankie nods, whimpering, and Grace heats all over again, needing to hear what other noises Frankie will make. She circles her fingers, slowly, learning how to touch, loving every sound she draws out. 

Grace watches Frankie's face, and it's wonderful, how it goes slack with pleasure, how the colour rises up her neck and into her cheeks. She pants through her nose, one hand on Grace's shoulder, one against the wall, but Grace is greedy, now, drunk on asking for what she wants, and it isn't enough. Unbelievably, it isn't enough.

There's dampness under her fingers, through the cloth. Frankie's wet – from touching Grace, from being touched by Grace. And no matter how thin the barrier, suddenly Grace can't stand it any longer. She needs to feel Frankie. She needs – oh, she can't understand it, how desperate she is to have Frankie's skin against her own. All of these desires she never knew she had, she never wanted to admit, so insistent now, sharp and clear as though she's been polishing them for years. The moment she acknowledges one, another springs fully formed from her head. She wants – Frankie's skin, Frankie's wetness, and then another need, so immediate that she cries out. 

"Grace?" Frankie gasps. 

"Oh, Frankie." That's all Grace can say for a moment. She leans forward, kissing everywhere she can reach, Frankie's cheek and her chin and her jawline. She breathes in, kisses, tastes sweat under her lips. "Oh, Frankie," she says again. "I want to be inside you."

Frankie's eyes fly open. "Fuck," she chokes out, and Grace thinks for a minute she's too late, Frankie's coming, she's missed her chance, but Frankie pulls back and catches her breath, gulping air. "Really?" she demands.

Grace bites her lip and nods. "I want to feel you." Now that she's had the idea, she can't understand why it didn't come to her before. It seems necessary as air, as water – Frankie, around her, enveloping her.

"Holy shit, Grace." Frankie sits back on her ass, thunderstruck. "Uh. Okay. Wow." She runs a hand through her hair, sending it sticking out in innumerable directions. "You still got my lube up here?"

"I do. I do." It's still in her bedside table, thank God. Leaning over to find it, she hears a choked whimper from Frankie, and she turns her swift reach into a languid stretch. Anything, anything to hear Frankie come undone. Grabbing the lube, she unscrews the lid and turns back to Frankie, who's already struggling out of her pants. "Now it's your turn, Frankie." She dips two fingers into the jar and scoops out some lube, rubbing it between fingers and thumb, her smile a silent promise. "Tell me how you like it."

"Fuck," Frankie says again, weakly. She flops down against the pillow and eases one leg up. She's still wearing her shirt, and Grace thinks briefly how unfair that is. But then, she's got better things to worry about.

She puts her other palm on Frankie's upper thigh, and they both sigh in unison. Frankie's skin is so soft, and Grace strokes up and down, fascinated by the sparse hair under her hand. She eases her touch higher, letting her fingers brush over the crease where Frankie's leg meets her torso, and to the side, where her hair grows a bit thicker, salt and pepper grey like the hair on her head. 

"Shit, Grace, don't – don't tease," Frankie moans. She grabs one of her breasts through her shirt and squirms under her own touch. She's rougher with herself than she was with Grace, and Grace watches in amazement. 

"I'm not, I – " She doesn't mean to, really she doesn't, but no matter how much she _wants_ , she doesn't quite _know_ what to do next. Shuffling closer, she brings her lube-slick hand between Frankie's thighs. She can start like this – remembering the way Frankie touched her earlier, like every part of her was precious. 

With her fingers, she parts Frankie's hair, sticky and a little matted already. Below it, Frankie is pink and flushed and wet, and Grace draws gentle lines over Frankie's dips and folds and valleys, marvelling at the way Frankie feels, the way she responds, lost sounds and helpless movements. She's so impossibly soft and smooth and hot and Grace can't help herself. She cups her palm and presses, rubs, covering her whole hand in lube and Frankie. 

"Oh, shit – baby, you gotta," Frankie says, rocking into Grace's hand. She squeezes her own breast tighter. "You gotta let me – "

This is too important for Grace's pride to get in the way. "Show me, Frankie," she pleads.

" _Yes_ ," Frankie moans. She reaches down, fitting her hand behind Grace's, and slides them both back, until Grace can feel, here, here where Frankie needs her. "Just... slow, Grace, okay? Slow and... easy." 

"Okay," Grace whispers, and Frankie lets go. Grace feels, carefully, with a finger, then presses forward, and... in. Inside Frankie. 

"Oh," she gasps, and Frankie arches up. "Oh, Frankie, you feel..." She thought Frankie was hot before, but it's nothing, nothing compared to the heat inside her. Grace strokes her, slowly, out and in again, astonished by how wet she is, and not just from the lube. "Is this – Frankie, tell me, is it good?"

"A bit – a bit more. Another – " Another finger, she wants another finger, and Grace whimpers, pulling out, thinking at the same time about a future when she might ask Frankie for the same thing. She slides back in, with two fingers this time, and Frankie spreads her legs wider. 

"Yeah, Grace, like that, that's so good, honey – just – " Frankie pushes on Grace's wrist, tilting her hand, and Grace crooks her fingers a bit with the new angle and tries again. "Oh!" Frankie's hips jolt up off the bed. "There," Frankie says, "just – fuck, keep doing that," and Grace does, fingers rubbing over that rough spot in the midst of all Frankie's smoothness, slow and steady and amazed every time at the clench of Frankie's muscles. She touches Frankie, and incredibly, astonishingly, she feels the echo in her own flesh, a soft pulse of arousal like an ember, still burning. 

Frankie's all around her - her slickness on Grace's fingers, her scent in Grace's nostrils, her body the entirety of Grace's narrowed field of vision - and still Grace wants more. Not now – she can't imagine being touched again, now – but each stroke, each sound Frankie makes, gives Grace something else to dream of. She wants to learn how to tease like this, how to hold back – maybe she can give Frankie just one finger, just almost what she needs, then make her ask for more. She wants to – to kiss Frankie here, and everywhere, but here, too, and make her feel as good as Grace still does. She wants to press against Frankie, feel that astonishing heat against her skin, wetness smearing across her thigh. Oh, she wants so much, and the thought drives her fingers deeper into Frankie, harder against that sweet little spot. Frankie keens.

"Oh God," Frankie gasps, "oh God, gimme – gimme the lube," and Grace stops moving, terrified.

"Are you all right? Is it too much, Frankie, tell me," she begs, starting to pull back. 

"No!" Frankie says, grabbing Grace's wrist and holding her in place. "Holy shit, don't you dare stop. Just – where's the jar?"

Grace fumbles with her free hand, patting the mattress by her knee until she finds the open jar, thankfully still standing upright. She presses it into Frankie's grasping hand and then, uncertain, starts to move inside Frankie again. 

Frankie dips two fingers in the jar and lets it drop. Her hips are still moving, rising into Grace's touch, and she meets them partway, just above where Grace is pressing into her, and then she starts to rub. 

Oh. _Oh_. Grace almost loses her rhythm. She can't help but stare at Frankie's hands on herself. On her – her clitoris. Oh. Frankie clenches around Grace's fingers, harder, throws her head back, moans, and that's – that's because she's touching herself, they're both touching her, they're touching her together. Oh, God. Oh, they're going to make Frankie come together. 

It's awkward, half-kneeling in Frankie's lap, and her knees hurt, and her wrist is cramping, but she only wants one more thing tonight: to see Frankie come. To make Frankie come, both their hands on her, both of them wanting the same thing. She's hardly about to let a little discomfort get in her way.

"Grace, faster," Frankie begs, her own hand speeding up, and Grace swallows and complies, moving fast, fast, faster, her fingers sliding slick and easy inside Frankie's incredible warmth. "Grace," Frankie moans, "baby, I'm gonna – you're gonna make me, do you wanna make me – "

"Yes, _God_ yes," Grace says, "I want to see you, Frankie, please, I want to." More than anything, she doesn't say, but maybe her touch says it for her, or the look on her face, because Frankie cries out wildly.

"Don't stop – just don't stop," she says, panting. 

No problem. Grace doesn't ever want to stop.

All too soon, though, Frankie's head falls back like she can't support it any longer. Her fingers on her clitoris jerk and shudder. Her back curves, her brow furrows, and her muscles clench, astoundingly hard, around Grace's fingers. Again, and again, and Frankie gasps and whimpers each time. Grace can barely move, between the strength of Frankie's orgasm and her own amazement at what she's seeing. Frankie, coming for her. Because of her. And she can feel it, not just in her fingers but all through her body in response.

"Oh, Frankie," Grace stammers, "Oh, my God, Frankie," moving her fingers slowly now, wide-eyed with amazement to feel the tremors still running through Frankie's body. She did this. She made Frankie come.

This, too, is new, and not just literally, being inside Frankie instead of being penetrated herself. It's usually a relief when her partner takes what he needs and finishes – it means he'll roll off her and give her a chance to breathe, to cool down, to rearrange her limbs and come back to her own body. She couldn't feel more different now. She's fully aware, entirely present, and instead of relief she feels almost disappointed. She doesn't want to stop. She keeps moving inside Frankie, keeps watching her, clinging to every moment.

Eventually, though, Frankie wraps sticky fingers around Grace's wrist, stilling her movement. Her eyes are still closed, but she tugs, and Grace slides her fingers out as slowly as she can. Frankie whimpers once she's empty. Grace has to stop herself from filling her up again.

Instead, she crawls across the bed, wiping her fingers on her discarded shirt. Her wrist is going to hurt in the morning. Right now it's a dull pain, matched by her knees, and, unexpectedly, her calf, where she must have clenched a muscle too hard and given herself a cramp. _Worth it_ , she thinks, curling up against Frankie. 

"That was amazing," she whispers, laying her head on Frankie's chest. She can hear her heartbeat thundering, hear her breath steadying. Frankie twines a trembling hand into Grace's hair and holds her loosely. 

"You're amazing. Jesus." Frankie takes a shaky breath. "Kiss me," she says. "I don't wanna be done yet, but I don't think I can move."

Grace chuckles and leans up and kisses her, slow and gentle. "Good?" she asks archly, mimicking Frankie's earlier question. She thinks she knows the answer, but she needs to hear Frankie say it.

"Yeah," Frankie breathes. She rolls onto her side with a grunt, facing Grace. For a long moment, they look at each other, wordless. Grace studies Frankie's face, familiar to her as her own after years of scorn. Now she can't see a single flaw.

Frankie touches Grace's cheek with two fingers, draws them down over her lips, her chin, her neck. She leaves a trail of heat behind her, and Grace finds herself, exhausted as she is, arching into the touch.

"Oh, yeah, baby," Frankie whispers, her voice full of wonder. "You were so good."

Grace blushes, ducking her chin to her chest. After everything, now she feels too exposed, and she reaches for the sheet. She's sticky, they both are. They should wash and change. The thought of Frankie naked in her shower beats insistently in her mind, and she closes her eyes against it.

"Good plan," Frankie says, leaning over the side of the bed and grabbing the duvet. She pulls it haphazardly across them, then rolls over and flops onto Grace, wriggling into in her usual position. 

Grace squirms. She's still naked. "Wait, I need – "

Frankie tightens her grip. "Nope," she says against Grace's shoulder.

"I'll get cold," Grace complains.

"I'll keep you warm," Frankie says. And Grace really can't argue with that.

"You'll be here in the morning?" she asks, voice small. She shouldn't have to ask. But she needs the reassurance.

"Yeah, honey," Frankie says. "And tomorrow night, and the night after that. I promise." She kisses the side of Grace's temple as though she's sealing her words. 

The last thread of tension that was curled inside Grace relaxes. She melts against the pillows again, the relief almost as great as another orgasm, and places a hand over Frankie's. She's not holding her in place. She's just holding her.

Frankie yawns. Grace does too. Sleep is already starting to steal over her, exhausted and warm in Frankie's embrace. As she's dropping off, she hears Frankie murmur something else. "I won't leave you alone," she says, and Grace sleeps dreamlessly straight through till morning.

  


* * *

  


Grace wakes up cold. The duvet is down around her waist and her back is bare to the morning breeze. She rolls over, ready to chide Frankie for stealing the blankets, but Frankie isn't there.

That sends a chill through Grace worse than the ocean air. She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest, frantic. The bathroom is dark. Frankie's robe isn't on the chair where she usually throws it. She's gone. Grace is alone. What – 

Her phone chimes again with her text message notification. 

That's what woke her, she realises, and she grabs for it as it continues to sound. There's a whole series of alerts on the lock screen, and... She squints. They're all from Frankie.

Her breath leaves her in a rush. Frankie hasn't gone anywhere, not really.

The first message reinforces that. 'On beach communing w nature & worshipping the goddess,' it says. Grace laughs, relieved to see Frankie's still... well... Frankie, as borne out by the rest of the series: 'Not worship like we did last nite. Very different. U could come join me tho. 4 either kind. Bring a blanket tho if u want becuz sand gets everywhere.' 

Grace shifts, flooded with heat at the reminder of the night before. She can hardly believe it was real, but the evidence is everywhere she looks: her nakedness, the Frankie-shaped dent in the pillow, the lube jar left open on the table in their exhaustion. And in the way she feels, too: tired, yes, and sore, especially her wrist – she shudders and swallows, remembering why – but exhilarated. 

Happy.

Her phone vibrates in her hand and she looks back down at the screen, watching as a new message arrives, followed immediately by the three dots of Frankie continuing to type.

'I c u reading this,' she says, and Grace starts, looking around, before she remembers the read receipts attached to each message. 'Good morning,' and then there's a little yellow face with a heart coming out of its mouth. Oh. A kiss. Grace smiles foolishly.

'U should come down,' Frankie continues, 'the beach is gr8. & the coffee is probably ready.' There's a pause as the little dots appear, disappear, and then appear again. 'U could bring me a cup?'

Grace laughs, but she's already sliding out of bed, clutching the phone tightly. She looks around for her pyjamas, but the pants are nowhere to be found. Probably better to get a fresh pair anyway. And maybe brush her teeth. And her hair. 'Be there soon,' she texts Frankie.

Frankie sends back another kiss.

Grace prefers never to go outside – even on their relatively private stretch of beach – without at least neutral makeup. She can't help herself this morning, though. All she has on is a tinted sunscreen when she steps onto their patio, clutching two mugs of coffee. 

"Grace," Frankie exclaims from the sofa next to the table. "Morning, beautiful!" 

Grace startles and turns. 

Frankie clearly didn't bother brushing her hair this morning. It stands out around her head in a wild crown of tangles and curls. Her face is bare, her robe is gaping awkwardly, and she's beaming. Grace beams back.

"Morning," she says, crossing to hand Frankie the cup with cream and sugar. She sits a little ways away from Frankie on the sofa, cup in her lap, awkward in the morning sunshine. Frankie reaches out a hand, though, and Grace takes it without hesitation.

"The goddess told me to come meet you up here. I think she's tired of all the coffee I spill on her beach." Grace laughs. "How'd you sleep?" Frankie asks knowingly, giving Grace's hand a squeeze. 

Grace blushes and clears her throat. "Fine," she says, "really well," and then, deflecting automatically, "What woke you up?"

Frankie shrugs. "Call of nature. And then I didn't want to wake you. You look so pretty when you sleep." She tugs Grace's hand to her lips and kisses the back of it. "I thought I'd come out here and check in with the goddess. Process a little bit." Fixing Grace with a pointed stare, she asks, "Do you need some processing time, Grace?"

Grace thinks about it for a minute, her hand still in Frankie's. "You know," she says eventually, "I really don't." She shrugs. 

She means it. Forget processing. If she's ever felt at one with the universe, it's now.

"Huh," Frankie says, eyeing her. "Okay. Respect. So... you're cool with everything that went down last night? Me included?"

It takes a moment for Grace to catch the insinuation, and then she gasps. " _Frankie_!" She jerks around, checking to see if anyone is in hearing distance.

Frankie chuckles. "Take it easy, honey. No one's listening. And no one cares."

"That – that's not – " Grace pulls her hand back from Frankie and wraps it around her coffee cup again. "You want to talk about this _here_?" she demands.

"Why not?" Frankie shrugs, like it's that easy for her. She doesn't need the weight of the blankets or the kindness of the dark to express her desires. She's used to shouting them out in the bright noonday sun. And she wants Grace to do the same.

Well. Grace might never get quite that far. But maybe this new self can be a little braver.

"O-okay," she says, shifting closer to Frankie, until they're pressed together all along their sides. Frankie makes a pleased sound and wraps her free arm around Grace, settling her head on her shoulder in a mimicry of their usual positions in bed.

"How do you feel?" Frankie asks after a moment, and this time there's no laughter in her voice. She's serious.

Grace takes a breath. She stares out at the ocean, searching for the right words. "I feel..." she starts, then pauses, nothing coming to mind. Surely there should be something. She's just had the best sex of her life. With Frankie, of all people! Not only a woman, but a woman Grace has spent decades trying to get away from. Now she only wants to keep her as close as possible. 

That should be the sort of unexpected event that provokes a real, grade-A freak-out, the kind she has to fight off with vodka and Xanax and practice. But there's no terror threatening under the surface, demanding to be suppressed. Maybe a delayed reaction is on its way – but right now, that doesn't matter. She has other priorities.

"I feel..." The silence stretches. Does she feel changed? Yes, actually. She's filled up inside with delight, with the purity of needs admitted and sated. There's no room left for panic. Forget 'should.' For once in her life, she wants only what she has: this moment, here, a little sore, a little tired, the beach in front of her and coffee in her hand and Frankie's head on her shoulder.

At last, she exhales. "I feel good," she says simply.

"Oh, baby." Frankie kisses her shoulder. Even through two layers of clothes, Grace thinks she can feel the heat of her mouth. "I want you to feel good all the time."

"I know," Grace says, her voice fond. "You told me often enough last night." Frankie chuckles, and Grace casts her mind back, remembering the previous night: Frankie's response when Grace shared her desires, and more, Grace's reaction to Frankie's own pleasure. _Be brave_ , she reminds herself. "What else do you want?" she asks.

"Hmm... a chicken coop," Frankie murmurs, kissing Grace's neck now.

Grace gasps, but retains the presence of mind to insist, "We – we're not getting chickens, Frankie. Be serious."

"I'm always serious," Frankie says, licking gently at Grace's skin. There's a tender spot there, under Frankie's mouth. A reminder of the night before, of how much Frankie wanted her. Still wants her.

"Please?" Grace says, and then clarifies immediately, before Frankie can get carried away. "Please tell me what I can do for you, Frankie. I want to know."

"Well, okay." Frankie presses one last kiss to that same tender spot and rests her head back on Grace's shoulder. "I want to watch you come," she says, casual as anything out here in front of the neighbours and God and the early-morning La Jolla beach jogging club. "Don't get me wrong, Grace, last night it felt pretty fucking great, but I couldn't see much." She gives a deep, bawdy laugh, and Grace blushes. "There's a few other things on my wish list, but first I wanna make you come real slow, and I wanna see what you look like when I take you apart like that. That's what I want." She nods firmly.

"I want that too," Grace says on a shuddering exhale. It'll be hard, uncomfortable maybe, to be watched like that, but it's an effort she's willing to make for the reward it'll bring them both. And after... she puts her coffee down and turns, taking Frankie's mug and setting it aside as well. "Do you know what else I want?" she asks, cupping Frankie's face in her hands, giddy with her own boldness.

Frankie shakes her head, mouth curving in a delighted smile, and Grace has to lean down and kiss her, right there in the open air, in the sun. "I want to taste you next time," she whispers against Frankie's lips, and Frankie yelps, and then they're both laughing, the sound of their delight floating away on the breeze, over the ocean's waves, and out into the universe.

  


* * *

  


_I was not prepared: sunset, end of summer. Demonstrations  
of time as a continuum, as something coming to an end,_

_not a suspension: the senses wouldn't protect me.  
I caution you as I was never cautioned:_

_you will never let go, you will never be satiated.  
You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger._

_Your body will age, you will continue to need.  
You will want the earth, then more of the earth–_

    – from "The Sensual World," by Louise Glück

**Author's Note:**

> I can't say enough good things about ellydash, my beta on this story. She was invaluable throughout the entire process: she convinced me this idea was worth writing, helped with plotting, made literally every scene better in some way, and, perhaps most importantly, didn't bail when it became clear just how long this fucker was going to be. Every time I had a question, she had an answer, often immediately. I owe her many, many thanks.
> 
> I also have to give a shout-out to silly_cleo, who was the genius behind "Al Pacacino." I wish I could take credit for that, but I cannot.


End file.
